


Let's Make Our Own Word

by viviixen



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Child Abuse, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hydra Peter Parker, Iron Dad, Peter Parker Acts Like a Spider, Protective Tony Stark, Spidermama, Steve Rogers Is a Good Bro, Timeline What Timeline, Tony Stark Has A Heart, also probably some spidermama knowing me, bc the marvel writers are COWARDS, better be safe than sorry, bucky barnes is the goodest bro i love him what a soft klondike bar, definitely spidermama, im so anxious posting this help me pls, spider son
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2019-10-04 17:22:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 58,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17308730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viviixen/pseuds/viviixen
Summary: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words are the greatest weapon known to man.❖“Weapon Eleven– mission count 11, recently 12, all successful.” The man lowered his glasses at him. He was unfamiliar, and the constant rhythm with which he tapped his pen on his clipboard was irritating.“Sir–““Did I say you could speak to me, spider?” The man barked with his nose wrinkled in distaste. The sound was harsh on his sensitive ears.“Negative, sir,” Weapon responded on instinct, heart stuttering. He focused on the feeling of his nails digging into his palms, determined to get this over with.





	1. Mission: Stay Strong, No Eye Contact

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first fic on this website! im getting used to formatting so if anyone has any tips pls yell them at me.
> 
> i've seen this done many times but i really love the concept of it and i hope i can do something that's never really been done. o well i guess we'll see
> 
> i'm gonna go out on a limb and say the posting schedule for this will be once every week (saturday?), but i definitely have it sorta planned so the process wont be a train wreck 
> 
> pls enjoy! <3

           ❖ START OF PART ONE: MISSION ❖

           Weapon made sure to keep his chin high and his knees steady as he knocked. He took a moment to prepare himself, clutching the small bag in his hand just to make sure it was still there.

            “Come in,” was the reply he was waiting for. A smile contorted his lips, but he quickly corrected his mistake and turned the doorknob.

            His administrator set down his paperwork, no doubt important business. “You’re three days early, Weapon.”

            “Affirmative, sir,” Weapon responded, averting his eyes when the man turned to him.

            “I assume this means that things went well or that they went horribly wrong.” He could hear the man’s nails on the wooden table.

            “Everything went according to plan, sir. Agent Rochester has been disposed of,” Weapon gently placed the bag onto the table. “No witnesses.”

            His administrator examined the bag’s contents. A cleanly severed finger with a gold ring still attached. “I better not hear of any explosions on the news, boy. And take that mask off, while you’re at it.”

            Weapon reached and pulled the mask off his head, silently grateful for the clean air. “The only thing that you will hear is that the man was killed in his bed with his wife beside him. They’ll only know that he choked on his own blood, sir.”

            His administrator eyed him for any weakness, something Weapon really wished he wouldn’t do. His attention returned back to the ring, rotating it to find the engraving with the initials _C.M.R._ “Good.”

            Weapon counted the seconds as his administrator tucked the bag into an open drawer and quietly stood. “Warm water for you tonight, well done.”

            His heart swelled at the praise, but his face remained deceptively blank. He bowed his head respectively, effectively hiding a small smile. “Thank you, sir.”

❖

Careful to confirm that the water really was warm, he stepped into the shower. He made sure to face the wall, still uncomfortable with the camera and the lack of privacy. He should be used to it by now, but he supposed the buzzing of his senses alerting him to the ever-vigilant eye in the sky didn’t allow that.

            Half expecting the water to turn to ice a minute in, he waited until he was sure it wasn’t just an elaborate prank to start washing himself.

            The water running down his shoulders was heavenly; he rarely got warm water as a reward and he loved every second of it. He tilted his face up, running his shampoo-lathered hands through his thick hair.

            Black dye ran down the drain, swirling in a whirlpool between his toes. When it was all washed out and his body didn’t feel sticky with sweat, he quickly turned the dial and swiped a towel.

            He wasted no time drying and getting dressed, knowing it wouldn’t be long before they checked on his skin and gave him dinner. He wrapped his hands around his wrist unconsciously at the thought.

            The quiet sound of approaching footsteps on concrete startled him from his thoughts, and he turned to face the see-through door.

            His guard, whose face but not name he remembered, tapped on the glass in a command to attention. As if he hadn’t already heard the approach.

            A white lab coat and polished black shoes came into view. Weapon obediently stood, eyes casted downwards.

            “Weapon Eleven– mission count 11, recently 12, all successful.” The man lowered his glasses at him. He was unfamiliar, and the constant rhythm with which he tapped his pen on his clipboard was irritating.

            “Sir–“

            “Did I say you could speak to me, spider?” The man barked with his nose wrinkled in distaste. The sound was harsh on his sensitive ears.

            “Negative, sir,” Weapon responded on instinct, heart stuttering. He focused on the feeling of his nails digging into his palms, determined to get this over with.

            The man gestured for the guard to move and took his place in front of the door. “I understand you have enhanced hearing, I apologize for any discomfort I have caused.”

            Weapon didn’t take the bait. He knew better.

            “Smart one, aren’t you?”

            He didn’t react to that either.

            “Good.” The man wasn’t addressing him when he asked, “May I come in?”

            The hinges squealed, making Weapon’s hairs stand on end.

            The man set the clipboard on the small slab that was his bed, putting gloved hands behind his back. “When did your last cut heal, spider?”

            Weapon showed his wrist to the man, making sure to expose the already silvering scar. “Yesterday morning. 5:00 if I remember correctly, sir.”

            He braced himself for the feeling of cold gloves on his skin. The man ran a thumb down it, eyes flicking to the boy. “Really? A wound this deep?”

            “Affirmative, sir.”

            His response was an interested grin and a skipped heartbeat. “Dr. Schneider told me that you were full of surprises, but I didn’t have the heart to believe her.” The man retrieved his clipboard, clicking his pen and scribbling something on it. “I am Dr. Roosevelt, your temporary moderator.”

            “Understood, sir.”

            “Now…” The man, Dr. Roosevelt, wiggled his fingers at Weapon’s arm. “You’ve reached stage 4 of your testing sooner than Dr. Schneider expected, and she needed time to get you on a long-term course of action.” He stripped himself of his gloves, producing another pair from a breast pocket.

            Weapon fixed his gaze on the small piece of fabric the doctor pulled from his coat. His fingers curled as the moderator thoroughly rubbed it on his arm.

            “I can assume that you just took a shower, by the state of your hair,” the man rambled. “But you can never be too safe, can you?”

            Weapon squared his jaw as the familiar feeling of steel bit his skin. His hair stood up, his senses buzzing. _Weapon. Left arm._

            The cobalt blood leaking from the cavern in his skin was warm, a sensation he was used to but not fond of.

            Dr. Roosevelt wiped away most of it with his cloth, fingers grazing his arm. He would think it was kind if he didn’t know better. Only his administrator could be kind, he learned that a long time ago.

            The doctor clicked his tongue and Weapon’s head snapped to meet his blue gaze. He immediately redirected it, expecting the blow to his head that came from his mistake.

            “No eye contact,” the moderator growled.

            “Yes, sir. It will not happen again, sir,” Weapon recited from memory, meaning every word.

            “Good.” The man peeled off his gloves and put them into his pocket, still holding the blue-stained cloth carefully. “Tomorrow I will be back to check up on the healing process and provide you with antibiotics. You will keep it clean, and when I arrive I will not detect any trace of infection, am I understood, spider?”

            “Loud and clear, sir,” he said, putting his fist over his overexcited heart.

            “Until next time,” Dr. Roosevelt mimicked him. “Hail HYDRA.”

            “Hail HYDRA.”

            Weapon decided once the doctor left that he missed Dr. Schneider.


	2. Mission: Friend, Do Not Fail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its saturday! ms word says this chapter is ~700 words. sorry its so short, but i wanted to start the schedule early so i won't procrastinate. 
> 
> TW our boy gets roughed up near the end of the chapter, please be cautious if something like that bothers you! be safe and read safe!

            The next day went by fast; the only thing slowing it down was Dr. Roosevelt’s late-night visit. It didn’t help his opinion of the man. Weapon didn't appreciate his black and white personality, it was harder to crack. 

            Today was the first of winter, so he was moved to his old cell while they shut down the heating in his room. They needed the extra power for more important things. 

            Even though the shift was only by a few degrees, it always hit Weapon in the face. A bitter wave of air that never left but sort of stagnated, pooling until spring came to wash it away.

            Weapon started by throwing his towel on his slab and putting on another pair of worn socks. That usually held him until late December, then they’d find some way to get him out of the facility.

            Winter was always itchy, though. His senses constantly told him he was cold– _yes, I know that, shut up please_ – as well as notified him of the camera in the northwest corner of the room, constantly trained on his every move. So he slept. And when he couldn’t sleep, he ran.

            He was on his 89th lap of the ceiling when the guard tapped on the glass. He quickly jumped onto the ground, eyes trained ahead.

            He heard the whine of the guard’s earpiece. The man clicked his tongue and Weapon gave him his full attention.

            “Sir wishes for your presence at his office,” he cleared his throat. “Immediately.”

            Weapon let the man open the door before stepping through the glass threshold. The annoying beep of his ankle tracker filled the dead silence of the hallway, becoming more frequent the farther from his room.

            Some days, he wanted to smash the thing. The other days, he was too scared to.

            He promptly ignored the guard calling in for a replacement and struggling to keep up with his stride. The man’s heartbeat was irregular. Perhaps he was scared of his administrator. He couldn’t imagine why.

            Scientists and soldiers alike raised eyebrows at him, but he shook off their stares, used to the prickling and goose bumps that came with them.

            To his surprise, his administrator’s office was open when he arrived. He raised his chin; eyes trained on the ground, and set his stance.

            “Leave,” he ordered the guard behind him. The man stuttered a quick affirmative before scurrying back off into the carefully vacant hallway. 

            “We have an issue, Weapon,” his administrator leaned back in his creaky leather chair. “A SHIELD-shaped issue.”

            Weapon subconsciously took note of the four guards in the room and their loaded guns.

            “It’s quite irritating, especially when they have a certain Boy Scout’s troop of superheroes on their side,” he sneered.

            “The Avengers?” _Contact, 10:00 from the right of the head._ Weapon was interrupted by a harsh backhanded slap. He didn’t stumble, ignoring the stinging skin on his cheek. The stab of betrayal that pierced his chest was unreasonable, and he hated it.

            _”Silence!”_ his administrator hissed. “This’ll be the most important thing your ears will ever hear in your worthless lifetime, _boy._ It would do you well to listen, and listen well.” The man began pacing, tugging at his cuffed sleeves almost obsessively. “Record.”

            “Yes, sir. Recording, sir.”

            “Friday, December 21, 2018. Mission 13: Rank 3 operation,” his administrator listed. “Start objective: infiltrate the Avengers. Shut down their tower, get information, and get out. No witnesses.”

            “Understood, sir,” Weapon said, heart in his throat and pulsing rapidly. He half expected it to short-circuit.

            “And if you fail?” His administrator migrated behind his oak wood desk. Thick fingers pushed a white book towards him. Weapon flinched, breath hitching.

            _Contact, 3:00 from the left of the head._ The back of his administrator’s hand met his cheek again, and Weapon righted himself.

            “If you fail, we’re going to have an issue, _friend_. You have a week to plan and three months to execute, no later.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Go back to your quarters, a punishment is in order.”

            “Yes, sir.” He felt like he was going to puke.

            A guard followed him out. He made haste of his journey back to his room, the humming of the florescent lights like nails on a chalkboard.

           When Weapon got back, he slapped his hands over his ears and really did puke.

            He thought he was doing so well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for the sweet comments and kudos, it makes me super happy y'all like my work ///// you guys are too kind 
> 
> cya next saturday (maybe earlier?)!


	3. Mission: No Witnesses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!  
> so the reason why this chapter is out today is because i was notified that every other weekend i won't have access to my computer, starting this week i think. i'm not sure if i'll have it this weekend, but i'm posting this now to be safe.
> 
> on the weeks where i wont have access on saturday, i'll be posting the chapter thursday or friday morning. hope that isn't too confusing
> 
> TW reference to child abuse, theres a graphic (?) scene at the end of the chapter. be safe!!
> 
> pls enjoy! <3

            For how big it was, it was hard to get an angle on Avengers Tower. He was dying to climb onto one of the skyscrapers and jump from roof to roof, but his administrator told him _no witnesses,_ so there would be no witnesses.

            After about an hour of frustration, Weapon decided to get familiar with the things around the Tower.

            Once he turned away from it, he suddenly realized that the city was a whole lot bigger than he thought.

            Everything in the windows was fascinating; from colorful, patterned clothing to strange food he wasn’t familiar with. He hated the neon lights many facilities sported; they hurt his eyes and disoriented him. Once a dirty man reached for his hand, asking pathetically for money, and Weapon had to stop himself from snapping every bone in the man’s arm.

            His fingers still itched to climb, to get on the ceiling, in a dark corner, but soon even that was forgotten. There were too many new smells, distracting sights, loud noises. What was he supposed to do with everything?

            He tried avoiding crowded areas, eyeing some people suspiciously and others curiously. His ears picked up on dozens of unusually pleasant conversations, his eyes not believing how at peace some people were with each other.

            Of course, the higher the sun crept in the sky, the more people walked out of shops or got out of vehicles or stopped next to carts selling greasy smelling food. Multiple people crowded around a male and a female, making some sort of noise that grated on his ears. Others seemed to enjoy it, even clapping to the sound of the woman’s voice. He didn’t know why, the vibrations of the noise-maker’s strings ruined it.

            Weapon backed away from the commotion, determined to find a quieter spot to observe, when his senses spiked. _Impact, from behind._

            He reacted immediately, hands clenched and ready to activate his webshooters. He whipped his head around, searching for the source of the threat.

            “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry young man!” A woman stumbled, dropping her phone and spilling her drink all over her jacket. She smiled at him and bent to pick up her phone, quickly saying a good-bye to whoever was on the line and spouting another apology.

            Weapon was confused. She didn’t mean to attack him?

            “Oh my god!” The woman looked distressed, her eyes scanning his face. She reached out to touch his arm, and Weapon tugged his body back. Threats bubbled on his lips, but he said nothing.

            “You poor thing, what happened to you?” She whispered, hands coming up to cover her mouth.

            Weapon tilted his head. What was she on about?

            “Do they hurt?” She breathed, looking almost sick.

            He reached up to touch his face and was suddenly reminded of the remnants of his punishments. “They will heal soon,” he answered. Even if he were in pain, he wouldn’t tell the strange lady. She could use that weakness against him.

            “Bull crap, you need proper medicine.” She sounded decided. “Do you know anyone? Do you have a place to stay?”

            Did he? Yes, but she couldn’t know. “No.”

            Her face was sympathetic and Weapon internally seethed. He did not need sympathy; it insulted him to even imply it.

            “I know it sounds weird and creepy, but I have first aid and an open bed at my house, do you want to stay the night?” she asked politely, giving him an encouraging smile. If her facial expression had a smell, it would reek of ignorance.

            “Yes,” he said, perhaps too quickly. It would be beneficial to have a roof over his head when night came, and maybe he could manipulate her into letting him use some of her possessions to further his own agenda.

            If his reply was too sudden, she suspected nothing. “Oh, thank lord. My car may be a bit small but it’s not too cramped.”

            This woman reminded him of Dr. Roosevelt, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

            “My name is Elizabeth, by the way,” She took her hood off, revealing ruby hair and pale, freckled skin. “But that’s too many syllables, so you can call me Lizzie.”

            Weapon didn’t take her hand when she offered it, but she remained unperturbed.

            “What’s your name?” He took too long to answer, apparently, because she continued with, “If you don’t want to tell me, it’s okay, I under–“

            “Miles. Miles Morales.”

            She grinned from ear to ear, looking genuinely happy that he told her that lie of a name. He smiled a little too, the closest thing he could get to glad that she was so easy to trick.

            “Nice to meet you, Miles.” She led him to the vehicle.

            Elizabeth’s car was indeed a bit cramped, but no smaller than his room back in the facility. Cramped wasn’t really the correct word Weapon would use to describe it, though. He’d always found small spaces sort of comforting. He could hide there.

            It was weird, though, how small her car was. He’d only been in the back of vans, stuffed among guns and magazines. Where he belonged. But where did she keep everything? There were a couple bags with logos on them shoved under the front seats, but that was it.

            After he’d seen all he could see in the woman’s car, he watched the yellow lines painted on the road whizz by in a blur until she parked.

            “Miles, we’re here!” Elizabeth notified him in a singsong voice, unlocking the doors. Ever since he gave her the false identity, she made a point to use it as much as possible. He had half a mind to tell her it was getting on his nerves, but he had a feeling he would get his way much easier if he were polite.

            He got out and scrutinized the facility in front of him, painted green. There was a startling lack of cameras and the windows were glass. Perhaps she had glass rooms in her facility, too.

            She jingled the keys at him. “Ta-da! Now you just need to meet Aaron and Emily.”

            Weapon’s brow furrowed. There were others?

            “Aaron can be mean at first, but he’s squishy on the inside. Don’t worry,” she reassured.

            Weapon followed her to the white door as she stuck the keys inside the lock. No fingerprint scanner or keypad? Did they not care about security?

            “We have a strict no-bullying policy any-hoo,” she threw open the door with a flourish and shrugged her thick, stained coat off. “Honey! I brought home a stray!”

            His first observation of the facility was that there were no glass rooms. His second observation was that it was severely unprofessional.

            There was a groan from inside, then an excited, high-pitched, “Puppy?”

            A little girl with curly black pigtails came barreling from behind a corner, making the hair on Weapon’s arms rise. “Mommy, that’s not a puppy!”

            Weapon had the urge to growl at it.

            “Emily, this is Miles,” Elizabeth introduced, “and Miles, this is little miss Emily.”

            Weapon forced a smile. No one noticed. “Hello.”

            “What do you mean it’s not a puppy?” That voice was deeper. A man. Definitely American.

            “Emily, go make sure Daddy doesn’t burn the eggs,” Elizabeth encouraged, waving as the little girl said good-bye and sped off to back where she came from. “Miles, take off your shoes before you come in.” He didn't.

            He stopped to take the facility in. It wasn’t much of a facility, really. Downgraded, maybe. No cameras, no trackers, though there was a blinking device on the ceiling that he recognized as a fire detector. There was one of those in the Dark Room.

            _Approach._ “Jesus, Elizabeth, you can’t bring a homeless boy into the house.”

            There was the man. He was holding a big platter of sorts, something that smelled like food but didn’t quite look like it stacked on top. He was wearing an orange print t-shirt, startling against his dark skin.

            “What was I supposed to do, leave him on the street when he obviously needed taking care of?” Elizabeth responded, placing her hands on her hips after gesturing at his face.

            “They will heal soon,” Weapon insisted, irritated by the scoff he received.

            “Yes, at least you should have!” The man he assumed was Aaron set down the platter and started spreading napkins out in front of the chairs. “What about Emily?”

            Weapon migrated by the table, intrigued by the flash of silver he saw.

            “Emily always loves people, don’t act like she’ll hate him– hey, what are you doing?”

            “It’s metal,” Weapon said. Poor quality metal, not durable at all. He could snap it like a twig. Probably stainless steel. “Forks can be metal?”

            Elizabeth swiped it from his hands, not without a buzz from his senses, and placed it to the right of the napkins. “Duh, dummy. It’s called silverware for a reason.”

            Never mind, she didn’t remind him of Dr. Roosevelt.

            “See, he doesn’t even know that forks are metal, Lizzie. You can’t just adopt anyone with a sob story.” The man turned to look down at him, obviously trying to decipher him by the way his brown eyes scanned his face. “What if he steals something?”

            “Miles wouldn’t steal anything, wouldn’t you Miles?” Elizabeth addressed him, face hopeful.

            “I won’t steal anything,” Weapon lied with a civil smile.

            The man waved him off, “Whatever. Go get Emily, she went into her room to dig around in her princess castle.”

            Weapon poked his head into some of the other sections, spotting a still-running television that looked too old to be useful, a wall covered with pink and purple doodles, and a concerning lack of visual directors. How was he supposed to know where the main hallway was?

            “Your name is Miles, right?”

            He turned to look at the tall man, who in turn looked at him curiously. “Yes.”

            “My name is Aaron,” the man held his hand out. Weapon didn’t know why everyone kept trying to shake his hand; only moderators did that when they met other moderators.

            “I’ve heard,” he said blankly.

            “How do you like it here?” Aaron’s heartbeat was fast, nervous. It reminded him of a rabbit.

            “Your facility is strange,” the boy answered truthfully. He’d seen others like it from the outside, and those were strange too. Whenever he went on a mission, the targets always had precautions, always had bulletproof glass and security cameras around every corner. He’d never seen one that was bare like this.

            Aaron looked confused. “Uh… thanks?”

            They were interrupted by Emily running past them, shouting, “But Mommy! Ladybug is on!”

            “Lunch, sweetie! You can’t watch Ladybug while eating!”

            Aaron over exaggerated a cringe in Weapon’s direction.

            “I’m not fond of children,” Weapon deadpanned.

            Aaron laughed, sudden and loud. Unfamiliar. “You get used to it.”       

            ❖

            Weapon didn’t eat lunch, whatever that was. If he did, he had a feeling he’d throw it all back up. Instead, he spent his time holed away in the guest sleeping room. It had a bed that was way too squishy to possibly be a bed, a ceiling light he wanted to break, and a tablet they left him with. To contact family, or whatever.

            These people were naïve, weren’t they? No wonder they didn’t have cameras.

            He wasted no time logging into the tablet with the password they gave him. It was surprisingly up to date, considering the low quality almost every other electronic was. Maybe they used it more often.

            He typed in the most used keyword to get to the Stark Industries website, and fished out the hard-drive like chip he’d stored in a web fluid cartridge. He’d need to replace it with actual web fluid soon.

            He hit the call button next to the first number the site provided him with.

            Inserting the device into the charging port, he smiled at the way the malware dismembered its data like a rabid dog.

_“Hello?”_ A digital lady’s voice came through the speaker.

            There was a ping as the malware pinpointed what he wanted, and lines of numbers and letters flooded the screen.

            “Sorry,” he said, “I must’ve butt-dialed the number.” His fingers flew across the screen, highlighting lines of information with deft practice.

            _“Ah, have a nice day,”_ the lady replied before hanging up.

            Weapon sat on the edge of the cushioned seat, waiting for a particular line to pop up.

                        _> Frequency identified._

            _Yes!_

            He hit play, and recorded it with the small device in his webshooters he usually used for voice identification.

                        _> Shut down? Yes, no._

_ > Yes._

_ > Shutting down…_

He removed the chip, throwing it on the ground and stomping on it. Destroying the evidence.

            His senses spiked painfully. _Approach._

            “Miles, kiddo, we’re going to go grab some–“ at the threshold stood a wide-eyed Elizabeth, her face white.

            Weapon’s hands were at her throat within seconds.

            She scrabbled for purchase, opening her mouth for a weak gulp of air.

            “You scream, and I’ll make sure they never leave the driveway,” he hissed, nose crinkling. She squirmed in his grasp, choking and wheezing. The kicks she landed to his stomach were pathetic.

            _“Miles,”_ she croaked, reaching a hand towards him, a plea. He held her there until she was blue, but her struggling never stopped. _“Please.”_

_No no no no no, please please please please, I’ll be a good boy, I promise, I’ll do anything. I’ll be perfect, I swear, please stop. I won’t malfunction, please! Please stop, please please please please–_

            A crack ricocheted through the room. Weapon let her body slip through his fingers and crumble to the floor.

            _Please please please please pleasepleasepleaseplease–_

            Guilt swelled in his throat, but he swallowed it. His administrator told him _no witnesses,_ so there would be no witnesses. None at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not quite sure about the rating on this story, if you know anything about that pls tell me!
> 
> thank yall so much for all the kudos and comments, i get unbelievably excited when i see someone likes my story <3


	4. Mission: Calm Down, Don't Malfunction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its saturday!!!!!! couldn't wait to get this chapter out, even if i had to rewrite it like 3 times 
> 
> so the rating went up, but i promise the story hasn't changed much. super duper hope that wont drive y'all off. i just want to be safe.
> 
> TW references to child abuse, self-harm thats not cutting, implied panic attacks
> 
> pls enjoy! <3

           It turns out no one really cared about his roof hopping if he did it discreetly. His suit was black, and night was usually black, so he guessed that made sense.

           Weapon found a relatively hidden corner of a building to rest on, taking a peek at the recording in his webshooters just to make sure he had it.

            He pulled down his mask, fingers grazing his jawline. It was now or never.

            It took a couple minutes to find the same frequency in the recording.

            _> Frequency detected, finding locations…_

            Weapon waited, taking deep breaths every few moments to steady himself.

            _If you fail, we’re going to have an issue, friend._

            With nothing other than determination, Weapon launched the drones. They detached themselves from the suit, whirring to life and heading towards the target.

            He watched the feedback on his screen until every light on the Tower shut down.

            Silence greeted him, soothing and reassuring. The calm before the storm.

            Pain shot through his head like an arrow, and there was a beep as his drones were deactivated.

            Something went wrong.

            He made a mistake. _No. No no no no no–_

            _Large projectile, head._

            Weapon ducked before he was decapitated.

⎊

            _“Found them.”_

Tony was running through the Tower faster than he thought he was able to. The entire thing was shut down, he only had access to FRIDAY through his arc reactor, and of course that meant the elevators were suddenly nonexistent.

            He should replace the stairs with high-speed conveyor belts, running on their own power grid.

            “Great, because this punk is making me run down 8 flights of stairs and I am not happy, Steve, not happy at all,” he said into the comms, silently cursing his choice to not destroy the Tower windows this year.

            _“Shit,”_ Steve hissed. Tony almost language-d him for it when he said, _“They’re fast and strong. I can’t do this alone.”_

“That’s why I’m heading over,” he replied. “Clint, you can get out there quicker than I can.”

            “ _Working on it, Tin Can.”_ There was birdbrain.

            Tony wanted to cry when he reached the end of the staircase only to find more stairs. He tapped into the comms with, “Hey, how mad would Pepper be if I smashed another window?”

            “ _I don’t know, she’s your Pepper,”_ Clint replied, yelling something at someone in the background that Tony didn’t quite care to hear.

            The comms whined, _“Jesus Christ, Clint!”_ Steve sounded distressed.

_“What was I supposed to do, shoot them with plunger arrows? It’ll be fine.”_

Tony nearly tripped on a step. “What did you do?”

            _”They know where you are, Clint!”_

            _“What the hell–“_

FRIDAY informed him that Clint was offline.

            Tony decided the window wasn’t worth it and shattered it with a high-powered repulsor blast. “Spangles, where’d Clint go?”

            _“Told him to deactivate,”_ Steve answered, sounding strained. _“Got a knife thrown at him before, but he’s fine.”_

            He was going to drink a gallon of coffee after this.

            “Boss,” FRIDAY piped up, “Wanda insists you let her help–“

            “Tell her we’ve got it, that she can help by being safe with Nat and Vis,” Tony interrupted, eyes adjusting to the familiar light the screens inside the Iron Man helmet let off. He’d told Nat to take a break and help Wanda with relaxing. Nat took easily to newcomers, even if she seemed cold. Steve and her: probably the best people for Wanda right now.

            “Coming in on the west side, Capsicle.”

            _“Tony, they can hear you through the comms. Stop talking,”_ Steve whispered, aggravated.

            He scoffed, then an idea lit up his head. Sensitive hearing…

            The roar of flight broke the chaos and Tony was off before he finished his train of thought. The building was really close to the Tower; he should’ve done this forever ago.

            He prepared himself for the screech of the new tech charging, expecting the sting to his ears even through the helmet. He hovered just out of range, where he’d be safe.

            The person, hard to see against the dead of night but definitely still there, seemed to be affected by the noise as well.

            “Tony!” He heard Steve yell, looking for some kind of explanation.

            “Cover your ears!” He shouted. The only word for the sudden, painful spike of noise would have to be an explosion.

            The figure writhed, clapping their hands on the sides of their head and dropping to their knees.

            Steve winced, looking to Tony for a sign to take his fingers out of his ears.

            The ringing slowly dissolved into octaves beyond Steve and Tony’s range of hearing, but it didn’t seem to let up for the now very small-looking person. They sounded absolutely terrified, whimpering and breathing much faster than was certainly healthy.

            He let it ring for what felt like hours.

            FRIDAY beeped and let Tony know that Clint was back online just before he spoke.

            _“I’d ask why you have that, but I don’t think I want to know.”_

“Dog whistle,” Tony explained, landing with a clank.

            The figure had stopped moving, slumped forward and limp. Probably unconscious. Tony shut the whistle off, motioning to tell Steve that it was safe.

            “I guess that worked,” he said, wiping blood off his lips and adjusting his shield. “Damn.”

            Tony wandered over to some sort of white substance sticking to the walls of a roof shed. He flipped up his helmet, confused. “Are these webs?” he asked, disbelieving, “FRIDAY, scan it.”

            “You’re the boss,” the AI responded calmly. The familiar ticking of the scanner started.

            “Holy– Tony,” Steve barked from behind him. Tony quickly turned to meet Steve’s gaze, eyes flicking towards the mask in the man’s hand.

            Tony nearly choked when he saw the attacker’s face, horribly bruised black and blue.

            He was a _child._

❖

            Weapon woke up to white. Not glass, not grey, no buzzing senses or suited men or doctors ready to slit his wrists. Clean white walls, with no writing or windows or anything at all.

            His breath caught in his throat, but he choked back his panic. He wasn’t supposed to, wasn’t allowed to panic. A blow, a reprimand, something was expected, but he never got it.

            He blinked and looked up. The lights hurt his eyes, especially since his ears still rang and his head still pounded. Brown eyes looked frantically around the room, noticing the lack of surveillance or guards.

            First, he noticed the restraints. He tugged but the metal didn’t budge. When he tried to activate his shooters, they weren’t there, and when he tried to move he was greeted with resistance.

            He growled, a feral noise. The weight was greater than wires, and it was stuck to a sort of metal desk. They were on his elbows and biceps, not on his wrists. Not intertwined between his fingers, so tight and hot they burned, leaving marks that wouldn’t heal for months.

            Heavy. Not wires.

            Then he was reminded of the gaping wound in his shoulder. Right, the arrow he pulled out. That sucked. It had been bandaged and he could tell it was recently cleaned, by the way his skin prickled.

            And thirdly, _he had failed._

            He’d failed his administrator. He just wanted him to be proud, just wanted one piece of praise, a warm shower, an extra blanket or bathroom break, half an hour more of sleep, or even a filling meal. He wanted so bad, and he hated himself for it.

            He was a weapon; if he was worthless he was thrown out. He learned that long ago.

            He sobbed, and went inhumanly still when he felt a vibration on his lower back, in the middle of his brand. A warning: calm down immediately. Or else.

            _His mouth filled with water and he couldn’t breathe, please he was dying–_

Another vibration, this time more urgent. His second warning.

            He needed familiarity. He rested his forehead against the cold metal of the desk, his breathing loud and his heartbeat rapid. All that met his ears was silence, though. Silence and ringing. He brought his hands to his scalp, tugging at his hair like his administrator did, digging his nails into his skin until he felt it puncture under the pressure.

            _Don’t malfunction, and he won’t reprogram you._

            This time the warmth of blood was welcome, comforting. He knew it and it felt like the facility, like home. It ran down his temples, mixing with sweat and hair, and dropped onto the table with a wet splat.

            He dug deeper, gasping at the pain. Yes, he was used to this. This was good. The skin gave away as he tore, a tiny puddle of cobalt forming around his head.

            The pain grounded him, made him feel present, safe. He felt almost proud, punishing himself when his administrator wasn’t in the room to do it for him. He always loved it when Weapon knew to do it so he didn’t have to.

            _Don’t malfunction; you’re a good boy. He’ll be so proud._

            Another drop of blue blood joined the puddle, loud and distinct among a jumble of noises and sensations. One, then another, and another, and another.

            _You’re a good boy._

            Anything was better than the weight of failure and the silence of solitude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls tell me if i wrote the action scenes well? this is the best i could do, but i still feel a bit off about it
> 
> also while your at it tell me if i got the feel of the Avengers correct? give me advice on how to improve? pretty please?
> 
> thank y'all very much for reading, and thank y'all to those who left kudos and comments. it makes my day when i get those <3 <3 
> 
> cya next thursday!


	5. Mission: Get Out, No Replies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thursday!!! yall have no idea how hard it was to edit this chapter, my cat decided my arm was a good place to fall asleep and i didnt have the heart to move him 
> 
> have some tony pov, enjoy! <3

                   The kid woke up sooner than they expected. He was already awake when Tony walked behind the one-way glass, hands behind his back, trying not to fiddle with his clothing.

                   He sat with his hands clasped in front of him, staring into space. If some sort of blue blood weren’t running down his forehead, Tony would’ve thought he was a statue. It was unnerving. Kids his age should be in _high school_ , god dammit. Not restrained in a high-security interrogation room.

                   When Tony had contacted Nat back in the Tower, Nat sounded skeptical but also angry. They had argued for a bit, it was obvious the kid was HYDRA property. When they stitched him back up after he’d ripped Clint’s arrow from his shoulder, they hadn’t missed the huge painful, angry looking brand in the middle of his back sporting the HYDRA logo, standing out among a collage of other scars.

                   In Tony’s opinion, it was less of what the contents of the brand were and more of the fact that it was a _brand_ , for god’s sake. But Bucky and Steve, reasonably, told Tony firmly that the kid was dangerous and needed to be under surveillance. Even if he looked like a fucking twig. Nat and Clint greed, Wanda was still a little queasy from all the blood.

                   When that was universally decided upon, the real question popped up: should they tell SHIELD?

                   Tony and the two spies, ironically, set their stance towards a hard “no.” They weren’t going to hand over a child to SHIELD to probably just be put in the Raft, or somewhere worse. Tony expected a fight, and he really didn’t blame Bucky and Steve considering Bucky’s past, but they didn’t put up one. So that was easily resolved, at least until Bruce and Thor came back from wherever the heck they were.

                   SHIELD would probably find out anyways, but delaying the inevitable was always one of Tony’s many skills.

                   _”I’m going in, don’t talk through the comms,”_ Nat said. She walked through the door, Wanda trailing behind her. Her stride was confident, practically demanding attention as she entered.

                   The boy didn’t look up, eyes like stone. Cold and unwavering.

                   Nat cleared her throat and pulled out the chair directly across from him. Even when she sat down, he ignored or just didn’t notice her.

                   It was awkward when it started; it became even more awkward about 10 minutes in. It wasn’t even a staring contest, since the kid wouldn’t acknowledge the two women’s’ existences.

                   Nat finally broke the silence with, “What’s your name?”

                   The boy didn’t answer, there was absolutely nothing suggesting he even heard her.

                   Tony’s eyes unconsciously flicked to Clint. The boy couldn’t be deaf, he’d heard Tony’s dog whistle.

                   Nat repeated herself, this time more sternly. “What’s your name?”

                   The boy cleared his throat, and said in a quiet voice, “Miles Morales.”

                   Tony blinked. So his suspicions were true.

                   Wanda clicked her tongue, and the boy’s head snapped towards her. Responding like a dog would.

                   “That’s a lie,” she said, pursing her lips. “Your name isn’t Miles Morales.”

                   Nat nodded. “I would advise you to not try to lie to us, boy.”

                   No response.

                   “Are you aware,” Nat shifted, “that you’re suspected of killing 3 people in their own home?”

                   No response. Nat took that as a yes.

                   “How do you live with that?” she asked, curiosity leaking through her façade. Tony understood, he hadn’t expected the kid to be this conditioned either.

                   “Quite easily,” he replied. His voice was very soft. It wasn’t hoarse from not using it and it wasn’t a whisper, it was just quiet. It didn’t sound normal.

                   Wanda gave no indication that the kid was lying.

                   “Okay,” Nat continued. “Why are you here?”

                   No reply.

                   Wanda opened her mouth, but the boy jerked suddenly. He pulled at his restraints, which only tightened with his efforts. He hissed at Wanda, sounding feral. _”Get out.”_

                   Tony heard Bucky stand from behind him.

                   Wanda’s eyes were wide, and she was holding her hands together so tightly that her knuckles were white. “What–“

                   _”Get out!”_

                   Nat stood when the boy growled, his lip curling. “Alright, alright. Wanda, stop.”

                   Wanda was visibly shaken, staring at the kid, who was practically vibrating in his seat.

                   Nat sat back down, more cautious now. “Why are you here?”

                   The boy was back to being a statue, brows furrowed and lips tugged downward.

                   “Who is your coordinator?”

                   No reply.

                   “Where are you located?”

                   No reply.

                   Nat leaned back in her seat, sighing. “Jesus.”

                   No reply, no reaction. Nothing. Like he used too much battery and powered off.

                   When it was clear they weren’t going to get anything from him, Nat and Wanda left the room. Wanda hovered just a bit longer, looking back at the boy. The door clicked shut much too loudly.

            ⎊

                   “What was that?” Clint was the first one to speak when Nat and Wanda entered the room. Nat shook her head and Wanda bit the inside of her cheek.

                   “Yeah, what’s up?” Tony inquired, crossing his arms.

                   Everyone’s eyes were on Wanda, with the exception of Bucky, who didn’t take his eyes off the kid.

                   She took a breath, and said, “He’s… very scared–“

                   “Yeah, no shit Sherlock.”

                   _”And._ And he’s very hard to get a read on, especially when he doesn’t say anything.” She fidgeted with the bottom of her shirt. “Why he’s here, I’m not sure. I just know that whoever his coordinator is probably threatened him with torture, or something like that.”

                   Tony groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “God, he’s just a kid.”

                   He could hear Steve share the same sentiment from across the room.

                   Wanda nodded, wincing. Nat put a hand on her shoulder, encouraging her to keep going.

                   “Looking into his head when Natasha asked that was honestly terrifying,” she said, her voice soft now. “If that’s how he was treated his whole life, oh my god…”

                   Bucky finally spoke up with an austere, “Well that’s why we’re gonna make it better. His life, I mean.”

                   Tony looked up at the ceiling. “What metal-arm said. No kid deserves that.”

                   “Yeah,” Clint added, sounding far off. “God, I can’t imagine my kids like that. That’s scary.”

                   Nat tapped her fingers on her arm, thinking. This was a bit overwhelming for everyone. “Did you at least get a name?” she asked without looking away from the floor.

                   “Weapon,” Wanda said with dead seriousness.

                   Tony closed his eyes as he let out a deep sigh. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u guys liked it? its short but i didn't feel like it needed to be very long.
> 
> thank yall for comments and kudos, yall r too kind i swear. :') <3 
> 
> cya next saturday!!


	6. Mission: Smile, Just a Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!!! early update, i have an explanation.
> 
> so, with my b-day coming up faster than i expected and my family deciding to acknowledge it this year, i got lots of plans on weekends. i know, the update schedule has been through the shredder and its only 6 chapters in. i apologize for that. 
> 
> new update schedule will be every thursday or friday. i think its a little less confusing than the saturday-thursday thing, but tell me your thoughts? 
> 
> TW reference to self harm and starvation, be safe read safe! <3
> 
> enjoy the chapter! :D

The pain went dull after a bit, but his senses wouldn’t stop buzzing. He was paranoid, he knew that, but it wasn’t unfounded. It was always loud now, the fluorescent lights emitted a deafening roar and the drip-drop of blood sounded like tiny explosions, but it was better than nothing even if it didn’t help his paranoia.

She could be anywhere. That’s why his head was buzzing. The red girl, with brown hair. He clenched his fists at the thought; his throat feeling like it was closing off. He had to take a deep breath to remember to swallow. She had invaded his mind, and scrambled it so completely that he’d lost his composure. The only place he was able to hide.

Another mistake.

Weapon knew his administrator wouldn’t be present for a while, so he punished himself for him. His nails were all he had, but it was enough to make himself bleed.

He didn’t know how much time had passed since the pain had dulled, but he knew that it couldn’t have been a short amount. His stomach started demanding attention, growling angrily. If he were back at the facility, he would’ve had an appointment by now.

His breath hitched at the thought of an appointment, but he righted himself. He remembered his lessons for situations like this; he could recite the orders in his head. He had to, or else he wouldn’t have passed level 2. He whispered them to the air almost religiously, to distract himself from his own head.

He felt a bit like a fish, mouth moving but no words coming out. He was used to being quiet, if he were too loud he would be righted, so it just felt normal. In the dead of summer, he would often do the same thing in order to ignore the heat.

His senses pricked the back of his neck, letting him know that something other than paranoia was happening. Indeed, the door opened to reveal a man in a suit.

Tony Stark. Iron Man.

He mentally prepared himself to be escorted to some sort of room similar to the Dark Room. This was basic training.

_ Rule 1: never waiver._

_ Rule 2: when they see that you won’t waiver, they’ll try to break you._

_ Rule 3: don’t._

But Stark didn’t escort him to a room, he didn’t put his head in a machine, and Weapon didn’t feel his new chip activating even if Stark wouldn’t have access to it.

Weapon was confused, especially when Stark sat in front of him and looked at him. Not like Black Widow did, not like the red girl did. Like Elizabeth did. He could tell, even through the dark sunglasses.

“Hi,” the billionaire said. “I’m Tony Stark, though you probably already know that.”

Weapon didn’t reply, raising his chin and avoiding his eyes.  _No eye contact._

“That sounded dumb,” he said obviously. “Let me start over. I’m here to tell you dinner will arrive in a bit, and I’m going to sit in here and watch you eat.”

That made sense. Like a guard, except on the same side of the glass.

“So you don’t try to kill us all,” Stark added.

“Of course,” Weapon said blankly. No emotion. He knew he had to approach this situation carefully; he wouldn’t be able to get around Iron Man like he got around anyone else.

Stark smirked at him, not unkindly, just amused. At least Weapon thought. It unnerved him, he couldn’t read anymore of this man than you could more than what’s on the cover of a book. He couldn’t see Stark’s pages.

“So you can speak,” he stated. “I was beginning to think you were mute.”

“Of course,” Weapon echoed. Rule 4: Fake compliance. Don’t let it turn into real compliance.

He knew who owned him, and that was his administrator. Not Stark.

“Boss, dinner has arrived,” a voice from a ceiling said. Weapon, against his wishes, flinched. It was too loud and too sudden.

He almost expected Stark to hit him, but he just explained with, “Oh yeah, that’s FRIDAY.” He stood up and walked to the door.

Weapon heard the door open with a squeak and the scuffle of something exchanging hands, and Stark was back as soon as he left. He set a plastic fork and a paper plate down in front of him. His eyes were pinned on Weapon almost expectantly.

He looked down at the apparent food in front of him. The only thing he recognized was bread, otherwise there was a brown sort of mush and something green. Weapon’s brows furrowed, his head tilting. It smelled okay, but steam came off of it, and from his experience that wasn’t good at all.

“What’s wrong, kid?” Stark asked, the question sounding real. He couldn’t tell with this man. “Dinner, right there.”

Weapon cleared his throat, and replied with, “I’m not hungry.”

That was a blatant lie, he was starving, and Stark seemed to pick up on it as well.

“Bullshit, we patched your shoulder up and you were as thin as a twig,” he refuted.  “Do they even feed you over there?”

Weapon’s nose wrinkled and he tried not to glare at the man. “I’m not hungry,” he repeated, firmly this time. Trying to make his words sound less like a moping child. A little twinge of anger sparked in his chest. How dare he insult HYDRA?

“God, fine.” Stark reached over for the plate, exasperated. “Give me it then.”

Weapon grabbed the plate, desperate. If he ate just this once, he wouldn’t be breaking rule 1, would he? Just this one time, his reprogramming could be cut a bit shorter?

“So you _are_ hungry,” Stark smiled. “Little liar.”

Weapon looked away from the man, back to what was on the plate. “I–“ he stopped, considering his words.

“Take your time,” he said mockingly.

Weapon looked back up, embarrassment making his skin tickle. “I don’t know what it is.”

Stark tipped down his glasses at him, probably looking for any hint of a lie. He would find none.

“What is it?” Weapon pushed almost aggressively, refusing to eat it before he knew what it was. What if they were feeding him poison? Peppermint, maybe?

“You’re not lying, Jesus, okay then,” Stark concluded with a sigh. “It’s leftover stuffing, broccoli, and bread, kid.”

Weapon searched his plate again, concluding that broccoli was the green, nature-y looking food and the stuffing was the mush. Still, just to be safe, he reached for the bread first, surprised at how soft and warm it was. It felt good against his hands.

“It’s warm,” he said, stating his observations out loud. When he did get bread instead of smoothies and oatmeal, it was cold and tough to eat. This was strange, to say the least.

Stark pursed his lips and leaned back, watching Weapon eat the bread first, then the broccoli, then the stuffing in record time. Weapon glanced at him every couple bites, looking for a hint of deceit or a reaction when he ate.

“Bread is usually warm,” Stark continued after Weapon had cleaned the plate spotless. “If it’s cold that means it’s stale.”

Confused, Weapon responded with, “No, it’s usually cold. Food isn’t supposed to be warm.”

Stark took a deep breath, complied with a short, “If you say so,” and collected the plate and fork. He stood with the intention of leaving for the door, but Weapon opened his mouth.

He fidgeted, “I’m still hungry.” God, he sounded weak. Worthless.

But Tony Stark, the man whose information should be at the desk of his administrator, the man whose head should be rolling, Iron Man himself, smiled kindly and said, “I’ll tell them that.”

And after he left, Weapon smiled back. Just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as per usual youtube-esque outro: pls leave criticism in the comments, thank yall for your amazing comments and kudos, i absolutely appreciate all of it and it never fails to make me smile ;w; 
> 
> would u guys like to see a prequel/sequel to this in the future? maybe? pls tell me? it wouldn't happen until this is done, but i don't wanna plan if u guys arent interested 
> 
> i love yall lots, have a nice day/night, thanks for reading! <3


	7. Mission: Us, Stand Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hihihi! its thursday and im here with another chapter for y'all, i hope you enjoy!
> 
> TW reference to self harm and implied panic attack, please be safe! <3

               The room felt a whole lot lonelier whenever Stark left. He came once every day during dinner, with 2 plates of warm food and conversation that didn’t really say anything but filled the silence.  He wasn’t the only one who came, though.

               Black Widow and the red girl presented themselves one more time, asking the same questions while wearing blank expressions. He said the rules in his head, nails digging into his hands. Her name was Wanda, and she stared at him while he refused to answer. She didn’t try to dissect his mind, but she certainly tried to with her eyes.

               It would only be a matter of time before they gave up on the interviews and then there would be no visits from Stark.

               That scared him more than it should have, and he dug his nails into his arm for it. _Perfect, perfect perfect perfect. Mistakes are just malfunctions in disguise._

               He didn’t talk to Stark unless he was talked to, and he didn’t share any relevant information. The man still kept his sunglasses on and his pages hidden, but it didn’t really matter. They were at a comfortable standstill, and neither party were trying to push the other.

               It was unfamiliar. Nice.

               His lips began to chap and he could _smell_ the stench coming off of him, and his nose wrinkled every time he moved. He felt sticky, dirty. It wasn’t that he wasn’t used to it, he just wasn’t a particular fan of smelling like he just got done with training.

               The worst part was the restlessness. He couldn’t even kick his legs, which made sense. His neck prickled every time someone so much as walked by the door, and his hair stood on end every time his fingers tapped against the table.

               These were the reasons why his face was caked in old blood and his arms were littered with new scabs. Something to do, a distraction.

               When he got back, he’d tell Dr. Roosevelt that puncture wounds healed in 2 hours. Or something like that.

               Stark had arrived just a bit ago, and he’d glanced at the wounds on his arms with something indiscernible. He brought no food.

               “You know, we’re thinking about moving you,” Stark said in a contemplative sort of tone. “Somewhere nicer, with a toilet and a shower. A bed.”

               “Why?” Weapon asked, an edge to his tone. Why would they accommodate for him when he was their prisoner?

               “Because hygiene is important, even for assassins,” he answered vaguely. Obviously a throwaway response. “Trust me, I know.”

               Weapon clenched his fists. Even Stark’s heart divulged no information, the heartbeat was irregular and damn near inaudible.

               “Why?” he asked again, trying to get some hint of emotion out of the man. Anger, annoyance, pleasure. _Something familiar. Something at all._

               Stark tapped his index finger on the metal table, face still unreadable. Those glasses didn’t help. “How old are you?” he asked suddenly, looking at Weapon expectantly.

               He paused in thought. Obviously, he wasn’t going to answer, but could he? He looked down at his hands, making the gesture for 5 with both, and pursed his lips. No, 10 was too young. 20 was too old. They told him when he reached a decade older, he remembered that much. 

               How old _was_ he?

               He looked up at Stark, almost like the man could answer the question for him.

               Stark made no indication he knew, or any indication at all other than a quiet exhale through his nose. “Okay, I can deal with that.”

               “Why are you moving me?” Weapon needed answers, so he could change his chant accordingly. He wanted to prepare himself for the inevitable pain, tell himself it could and had always been worse than whatever contraption they were going to put him in.

               “I told you, kid, we’re going to move you somewhere convenient for you and us.” Exasperation, that was good. It meant Stark was more man than iron, though Weapon still wasn’t sure of it.

               “When?”

               Stark raised an eyebrow at him, a gesture he’d never seen before coupled with an amused smile. “When do you want?”

               _Never._ He elected to stay silent. Quiet, like he should be.

               “I’m going to take that as a _now_ , then,” Stark said, bringing his wrist to his eyes and pressing a couple buttons that made clicking noises on his watch.

               Weapon lifted his chin when he heard the whine of a microphone.

               “Yeah, we’re moving the kid today. Anyone up for it?” Stark said nonchalantly, putting his fingers on his left ear as if it would block the sound from Weapon’s ears. He stood, pushing in his chair, before waving to him and walking to the door.

               Weapon heard someone say, _”Nose goes,”_ before Stark closed the metal door with a clang.

❖

               Stark didn’t come back immediately, and even if Weapon didn’t really have a concept of exact time, he estimated about 45 minutes until he returned. The sensation of hair standing up on his neck told Weapon that Stark wasn’t alone, and he took a deep breath.

               Stark walked through the door first, followed by a large man he recognized as Captain America– his lip curled when their eyes met– and the Winter Soldier.

               Weapon reeled back, yanking at his restraints and trying to scoot his chair away from the doorway. _“Солдат. Предатель.”_

               Captain America and the Winter Soldier paused, but Stark came forward with hands in front of him. “Kid, you have to calm down if you want to move–”

_“Я оторву ему голову от шеи, а потом отнесу ее начальству в качестве трофея!”_ Weapon spat, glaring at the man from over Stark’s shoulder. _“Предательская мразь!”_

_“отставить,”_ the Winter Soldier told him, his voice monotonous and firm.

               Weapon felt the restraints getting so tight they dug into his arms, but he couldn’t care less. _“Не приказывай мне! Пошел ты!”_

               Stark put his hands on Weapon’s wrists, and suddenly he was back in the facility, cold, writing-covered walls and barred windows.

_See these scars? These are for a better world, for_ us, _паук._

               A vibration ricocheted across his spine and he came rushing back to the sound of Stark’s voice. “See, there we go.” he was whispering. Like he was soothing a child.

               Weapon jerked his wrists out of Stark’s grip, holding them close to his chest. He closed his eyes and exposed the side of his head, lips pursed, waiting for the strike.

               It never came.

               He opened his eyes to see Stark still looking at him hesitantly, hands hovering over Weapon’s shoulders like he wanted to squeeze them.

               He’d never had that sort of reaction to a glitch before.

               “You good?” Stark asked. “I should’ve asked if Bucky was okay with you,” he mumbled under his breath. Stark looked over his shoulder, and it occurred to Weapon that the man was blocking him from view. “Hey Steve, do you mind going it alone?”

               “No, that’s okay,” came a different voice. Captain America’s.

               “Okay,” Stark breathed, “okay.” He stepped back, revealing Captain America with a cautious sort of expression on his face. Weapon wasn’t really bothered by being manhandled as he put his large hands on the area just below his restraints. He expected it.

               He tried to look over his shoulder to locate the Winter Soldier. He was a threat, his location had to be identified at all times.

               He found no glint of metal or hint of brown hair.

It didn’t help his rapid heart.

               “FRIDAY, deactivate VB3.0 models bicep 1 and 2,” Stark said in the background.

               The same female voice as earlier came from nowhere with, _“Sure thing.”_

               Weapon shifted as the restraints snapped open suddenly, sinking into the back of the chair with a hiss.

               Captain America’s grip on his arms tightened. “Don’t think about it,” he warned.

               “Deactivate elbows 1 and 2, too, FRI.” This time the change was a bit more jarring, because the hinge chafed against his sore arms before merging with the desk. He squirmed just a little, opening and closing his clammy hands.

               “You got him?” Stark asked, looking at Weapon even while he addressed Captain America.

               “Yeah,” the blonde said, holding Weapon still when he tried to roll his shoulders. “Yeah, I got him.”

               One by one, the copious amounts of cuffs littered on his legs were released and the only thing holding him down was the hands on his arms.

               “You can stand up, kid,” Stark told him. Weapon slowly stood up, hating how stiff his legs were. “Alright,” Stark’s smile was full of white teeth, but it didn’t really meet his eyes. _“Vamonos.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> 1\. Солдат. Предатель. (Soldier. Traitor.)  
> 2\. Я оторву ему голову от шеи, а потом отнесу ее начальству в качестве трофея! (I'll tear his head from his neck, and then take it to my superiors as a trophy!)  
> 3\. Предательская мразь! (Traitorous scum!)  
> 4\. отставить. (Set aside.)  
> 5\. Не приказывай мне! Пошел ты! (Don't order me! Fuck off!)  
> 6\. паук. (spider.) (im pretty sure yall know this because of all the fics with spidermom, lol) 
> 
> this won't be the last time Bucky interacts with our boi, dw. i thrive off their friendship
> 
> i actually didn't use google translate for once in my life. i still don't think that the translators the most ACCURATE thing in the world, but i don't speak russian so ;-; 
> 
> this is the translator i used in case yall wanna yell at me (please do): https://translate.yandex.com/?lang=ru-en
> 
> thank you guys SO MUCH for your comments and kudos. i know i say it everytime but they never get old and i really love seeing that people like my story. <3 <3 <3 <3 you guys are great 
> 
> cya next week!


	8. Mission: Delete the Virus, Write in Black Ink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! as per usual, its thursday
> 
> something sad happened friends :( lets all take a quick moment of silence for our space friend oppy, may they rest in peace. the best mars rover humanity could ask for 
> 
> ALSO HAPPY VALENTINES DAY!!!!!!!!! if yall dont get any valentines today i have lost faith in humanity, yall are amazing. happiness to all of u 
> 
>  
> 
> TW mentions of torture (not much today, angst train needs a stop), please be safe!
> 
> enjoy! <3

           Weapon couldn’t help but take in everything around him, from the big glass walls that didn’t look remotely functional to the seemingly unnecessary amount of cushy furniture in each room. He stretched his neck to see inside every section, trying to memorize the layout. In case he needed to escape.

           Weapon also figured the Winter Soldier was following him, since his senses screamed  _ approach from behind  _ every other minute. He made a point to move quickly with Captain America, his skin prickling every time the man looked at him. 

           He lifted his chin high. No weakness. No failure. 

           He was getting very tired of the hallways which all looked the same, save for a couple pictures of a man he wasn’t familiar with dotting the plain walls here and there. You’d think someone as rich as Stark would have a more appealing facility, but perhaps he liked to stay professional. 

           Captain America cleared his throat, urging Weapon to move faster. He reluctantly replied, taking his eyes away from the portraits of the man. He had some resemblance to Stark, a relative?

           They stopped at a metal door with a number pad stationed next to it, and Captain America covered his eyes with a hand while Stark put the code in. The beeps were shrill and quick, and the grating of the metal door was irritating and mildly painful to his ears. 

           Captain America took his hands off his eyes before Weapon could push them away, and Weapon almost choked when his eyes adjusted to the light. 

           The room was  _ huge.  _ And it had a bed with too many pillows and blankets to count, and a desk with a lamp, and a chair, and it was all too much–

           “Do you like it?” Stark inquired. He had somehow come into possession of a tablet he was tapping on, looking up to examine the room every few seconds. He waved a hand at Captain America, “Let him explore.”

           He was released.

           He rushed towards the bed, his movements jerky as he cautiously rested his hands on the edge of it. 

           He yanked his hands away when it squished, staring at it like it’d collapse. He pulled the layers of blankets back, putting all the pillows on the ground.

_            Maybe it squished because it was going to trap and drown him.  _ He could hear springs squeak when he pressed his hands on it again.

           The bed was all wrong, it was soft and layered and confusing, and most importantly, it wasn’t in a corner.  _ If he slept on that, he’d be exposed on all sides.  _

           He bolted to the desk, picking up the papers that rested on it immediately. Lined, hole punched, the usual.  _ Something to help with his punishment,  _ oh he thanked what gods existed, and couldn’t restrain the smile that bloomed on his lips.

           He’d fill the lines with inked words, hand them proudly to his administrator, and he’d get warm food and a word of praise. His heartbeat skyrocketed at the thought of pleasing his administrator. It’d all be worth it.

           He harshly put the papers down, turning towards the closed door to the left of the bed. He opened it, and he was suddenly frozen to the floor. 

           There was a shower, and a toilet, and towels that hung from a rack. 

_            Maybe he had a lot of towels because they planned on taking away the air conditioning like they did back in the facility. Maybe the tiles were there so they could get the blood off easier. There were tiles in the Dark Room, too. _

_            But there was a shower.  _ There was a  _ shower.  _ A big one, with glass and privacy and soap that smelled like vanilla. 

           He hadn’t believed Stark, when he said that he was going to put him somewhere with a shower. Stark was telling the truth. 

           He cleared his throat, wrapping his arms around his middle, and walked in. The tiles were cold and shiny, white unlike the grey ones in the Dark Room. He touched everything with the utmost caution, only allowing a light graze before he pulled his hand back. The towels were fluffy and unmatted, something else he wasn’t used to. What if they drowned him, too? 

           And then he was in front of the glass of the shower, eyes flicking from one little detail to the next, trying to find anything,  _ anything,  _ that told him it was fake. 

           “We didn’t put names on anything because we didn’t know what to put,” Stark interrupted. “What’s your name?”

           Goosebumps spread along his arms, and he looked at Stark skeptically, then at Captain America. “You should know, the red girl glitched me,” he said obviously. 

           “Glitched?” Captain America sounded confused. 

           “When you temporarily deactivate,” Weapon explained. Who didn’t know about glitching? It had happened to all the Weapons before the purge, and it was expected during coding and the training afterwards. 

           “Uh,” he responded with, nodding like he understood, but Weapon could tell he didn’t, “okay.” 

           “What’s your name?” Stark pushed again. 

           “Weapon,” he replied. The man knew it anyways, it wouldn’t do any harm to tell him as long as he didn’t let his code slip. 

           Stark frowned like it wasn’t what he expected, and went back to the tablet.

           Weapon slowly slid the glass away, fingers sticking like glue. 

           There was one too many dials, something with red and blue arrows. The only gadget he knew was the thing that made it turn on. 

           “You like showers in particular?” Stark called, sounding amused. If he told him, he’d take it away. _ No rewards for a job not done.  _

           Weapon elected to stay silent, taking his hands away from the glass. He was tired to his bones, and held back the urge to rub at his eyes like a child, but he had to be strong in their eyes. It’d delay the inevitable. 

           Stark hummed, like Weapon had said something, and clicked a button on his tablet with a flourish, exclaiming “All done! Now, if you need anything from me or Spangles here, ask FRIDAY.”

           Weapon craned his neck to get a look at Stark’s tablet, but he put it behind his back and waved at him as if Weapon couldn’t see him.

           “The door is locked tight, and you bet everything important is made of vibranium,” Stark carried on. “It wouldn’t be wise to try anything, at least from my perspective.”

           Weapon nodded. So it was a quarter, a foreign sort of quarter with another room and a soft, weird bed, but a quarter nonetheless. 

           “I’ll be back in a few hours for dinner, yeah?” Stark finished, his smile unreadable. 

           Weapon nodded again, swallowing. He was glad his chip was silent and still, despite the uncertainties running through his mind. 

           He didn’t notice they left his senses buzzed right before the door closed noisily. 

           He distanced himself from the thoughts of warm water and the spray of a showerhead, biting his cheek to keep from yawning. He stopped when he tasted blood, heading back through the door into the main room, and clicked a pen laying on the desk. Black ink, ballpoint, hopefully not dry.

           He wrote the first Word in his shaky, novice handwriting and sat down on the stool tucked underneath the desk, making sure the blocky letters were distinct and sincere.

_Friend,_ he wrote, tongue feeling swollen in his throat.

           He wrote until his hand was numb, then wrote until he was numb.

           You carried out unsupervised reprogramming by reversing glitches, and this was how you did exactly that. 

           You deleted the virus. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the usual thank yall for your comments and kudos! i try to reply to everyone, but im kinda awkward and might not reply for a while bc im scared? idk 
> 
> BUT THANK YOU for commenting anyways! even if its just a word or an emoji i appreciate it a lot <3 ;w; 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed, the next chapter is pretty heavy with the angst so get all the fluff you can!
> 
> cya next thursday!


	9. Mission: Purpose I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thursday!!! hello! 
> 
> this is the angsty chapter. please be safe reading it!
> 
> TW panic attacks, drowning and torture, starvation 
> 
> enjoy! <3

           Weapon turned the dial to the shower on, jumping a bit at the hiss the showerhead let off before it started. He relaxed when the cold water hit him, washing off the ink that he felt was carved into his skin. It would get rid of the writing, but not the Words, and it was better like that.

           He reached for a bar of soap, his nostrils filling with the warm scent of vanilla. He spent longer than he should’ve cleaning himself before moving onto his overgrown mess of curls. He was stuck, though, at the containers of shampoo.

           Multiple said something like _conditioner,_ he had no idea what that was. The containers looked like shampoo bottles, but it read something completely different.

           He sat there reading the back of the bottles, just getting more and more confused. This _conditioner_ was nearly the same as shampoo, why was it conditioner?

           The ceiling whined, and he whipped his head up. His hair stood on end, stiff despite the spray of frigid water.

 _“I recommend using warm water, Mr. Weapon,”_ the female lady said, FRIDAY if he recalled correctly. She sounded a bit like Dr. Schneider.

           “Warm?” Weapon replied in a hoarse voice. Warm water was a reward, if anything he didn’t deserve the water at all.

 _“Of or at a fairly or comfortably high temperature,”_ FRIDAY said calmly, _“warm.”_

           “I can have warm water?” he whispered, suddenly feeling very small.

_“If you don’t want hypothermia, yes. The average human can withstand 15 minutes in the temperature of water you’re using for your shower.”_

           Weapon turned to look at the dials, putting down the container of conditioner and digging his nails into his arm. It stung a bit from the soap, but it grounded him better. “I can have warm water?”

 _“Do you want me to contact Mr. Stark?”_ FRIDAY asked, sounding as inquisitive as a robot could sound.

           He hoped this was a joke. He really, really did.

_“If you do not respond in 15 seconds I will be required to contact Mr. Stark as a part of the Spiderling Protocol 1.”_

           “Spiderling Protocol 1?” Weapon asked, scared. It sounded like a code. Was it a code? Did he break a rule?

 _“Contacting Mr. Stark…_ Hey what’s up, kiddo? _”_

           “No!” Weapon hissed, covering his body. “No! Go away!”

           “You in the shower? Don’t worry, I can’t see you,” the voice of Stark said, sounding crystal clear even through FRIDAY.

           Weapon still didn’t loosen his grip on his shoulders.

           “FRIDAY tells me you’re showering with cold water,” Stark said, sounding confused. “We have warm water, there’s enough heat to go around.”

           “What did I do?” Weapon asked softly. “What’s a protocol?”

           “What do you mean, what did you do?”

           “Warm water is a reward,” he whispered. “Did I do something?”

           A couple seconds went by without Stark answering, and Weapon thought he had disconnected before Stark said calmly, “You don’t need to do anything to get warm water, kiddo.”

           Weapon dug his nails into his skin. “But– warm water is a privilege?”

           It came out more of a question than he’d like it to be.

           “No, it’s not,” Stark replied immediately. He didn’t sound angry, though, just tired.

           Weapon shook his head, biting his lip. “Yes, yes it is.” He inhaled, rubbing at his face to stop the thoughts. He didn’t need weakness crawling under his skin.

           “FRIDAY, set the water temperature in the kid’s shower to 67%.”

           “No!” Weapon barked. He was going to ruin his reprogramming, his everything.

           “Too bad, Protocol Spiderling 1 makes sure you don’t die,” Stark said smugly.           

           Weapon rushed to the showerhead, frantically putting his hands over it to stop the warm water before it came. He needed to stand on his tiptoes.

           “Kid, just let it happen,” Stark sounded annoyed now. “Warm water is meant for showering, that’s its _purpose.”_

           The cold water suddenly felt like ice shards, one by one. The droplets trailing down his skin felt like blood and it was _so, so cold–_

           His breath hitched, and he said weakly, “Please.”

           “I can’t let you get hypothermia!” Stark said loudly from the other side of the call, and he could hear the crash of tools in the background, following by a string of expletives. “Just listen to me, _okay?”_

           All Weapon could hear was the shout in his voice, and he scratched himself. No no no no no _no no no no nonononono–_

_“How dare you obey a direct order from your superiors?”_

           He vaguely felt a vibration blossom across his back, but he didn’t care, he  crumpled to the ground and pressed his forehead against the tiles, pulling at his hair.

           “Hey, are you hearing me?”

_“Don’t you understand your place? This is where you were born and this is where you will die!” The wires cut into his fingers and wrists and ankles, hot, so hot, charring his flesh and strangling his skin in fire. He sobbed, and sucked back the urge to to do again._

_He choked on the water that filled the mask._

           “FRIDAY, disconnect the call,” Weapon croaked, bracing his hands on the ground. He felt another vibration alight on his back, urgent.

           Warm water spread on his skin, and he was drowning in water that wasn’t there, his lungs begging for oxygen.

           “Kid, are you okay?”

_The beeping started up again, and Weapon couldn’t help it. He pleaded, wrapping his sliced fingers together in prayer and begged on his knees. He could hear his weakness even over the warning, even over the whine of activation._

           “FRIDAY, disconnect the call!” Weapon shouted.

           “Ki– _call disconnected.”_

 _“Obedience is your_ purpose, _Weapon! And you do not seem to understand that!”_

_“Please, Master, please, I’m so sorry,” Weapon promised into the warm water, his tongue trying to block it from filling up his throat, “I’ll be better, I’ll do my best.”_

_“Your best isn’t fucking good enough, boy! I spend years programming your ungrateful ass and this is the thanks I get, a pathetic sobbing mess?” he swore. Every syllable was a bullet, and Weapon flinched as they buried themselves in his mind. “You’re a useless whore of a boy, you’re not worth the things I give you. A fucking freak, not even a whole human. This is the best you can do?”_

_The words hurt more than the wires._

_But he was right. His administrator is always right._

           A third vibration, this time violent.

_He deserved this._

           His hands shook.

_Screams tore at his throat, his only response an irritated “Shut up!”_

           The fourth and final warning buzzed against his spine, and he bit down on his lip so hard blood spilled from his mouth. He dug his nails into the side of his head. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe. He was going to die–

_He deserved this. His administrator said so, so it must be true. His administrator loved him, that’s why he was doing this. He would always love him._

           His chip activated with the same whine, the same beeps.

_If only he had listened, he wouldn’t have malfunctioned. He deserved this. For making his administrator’s life harder. It was all his fault._

           He arched his back and the same all-consuming agony ripped through him, burning the same patterns down his back and across his shoulders. It burrowed into every pore, hooked claws shredding flesh. Deleting the virus that had been worming its way into his heart. He deserved this.

_“Now, what have you learned?”_

           His skin screamed, but he didn’t.

 _“My_ purpose _.”_

           This time he didn’t make a sound.

❖

           Stark came at the time he promised before.

_His shirt chafed at his red skin, but indecency wasn’t allowed back in the facility, so it wasn’t allowed here._

           He was curled up on the ceiling, eyes blankly staring at the wall.

_He could smell the food in Stark’s hand, but he wanted to puke at the thought of eating when he wasn’t supposed to._

           Stark’s footsteps were careful and quiet, the hum of the arc reactor nearly there but not quite.

_He deserved it, the blisters, the hunger. Because he was weak. But he couldn’t let Stark know that, so he was quiet like the arc reactor._

_Forever silent until ordered otherwise, just like he should be._

           The sound of the paper plate being placed on the desk was too loud.

_He had to start his reprogramming all over again. He’d do it. He’d to it for his administrator, to make him happy. Anything, he’d do anything._

           “Hey, kiddo,” Stark whispered.

_He could hear the man’s breathing. He wanted to rip out his hair, his eardrums. His senses were at 11._

           “I brought dinner.”

_He was supposed to be hungry. He was supposed to be hungry for a week, then get dinner and a morning meal, then be hungry again. It was how immediate post-malfunction reprogramming worked._

           “It’s broccoli and bread.”

           Weapon didn’t respond, the ink on his arms still stinging from the sharpness of the ballpoint pen against his skin.

           “Do you want to talk?”

_Talking was a rare but necessary privilege. He wasn’t going to risk it._

           “Do you mind if I stay in here? I know when I freak out, I don’t like the dark.” Stark sounded like he was talking to a cornered animal. Weapon supposed he was, because he wasn’t even a whole human. He had needed that reminder.

           “I suppose that’s a yes.”

           Stark did, in fact, stay. He watched Weapon, he watched his phone, and he eventually fell asleep on the too-soft bed hours later.

           Weapon didn’t, but he did relax just a little to the sound of the man’s slow exhales. He ended up synchronizing his own with them, just to be a bit calmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for the feedback, comments, and kudos. they always make my day a little brighter and i couldnt be more grateful if i tried <3 <3
> 
> see you all next thursday! bye!


	10. Mission: Purpose II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!!
> 
> super excited to get this one out, it's a Tony chapter for yall :D
> 
> TW mention of starvation, pls be safe! (also spoilers for the book the Giver by Lois Lowry) 
> 
> enjoy!!

           Bucky was a blessing. Sometimes.

           “Did I do something wrong?” Tony asked, sounding guilty. He squeezed his rubbery stress ball hard.

           “I wouldn’t know, Tony,” Bucky answered thoughtfully. “You could’ve overwhelmed him, or…”

           They sat in mutual silence. This was happening a lot in such a short time, talking sessions with Bucky. Tony just wanted to do the best by the kid, and if that meant learning from the former Winter Soldier, so be it.

           He didn’t know why he wanted to be the kid’s shoulder to lean on, but at this point he didn’t really care. He just wanted to see the kid smile.

           “What can I do to make it better?” Tony didn’t think he could handle a night like last one’s, where the tension in the air was so thick you couldn’t breathe and the little bundle, who was so much smaller now that he was curled up that way, on the ceiling was so still and silent you’d forget he was there.

           “Keep showing him you care,” Bucky said without looking up from the ground. The answer was certain, like he knew completely the course of action. Tony supposed he was the most qualified. “Don’t leave him alone, and if he needs space, always come back.”

           “He hates me,” Tony said, pursing his lips.

           He remembered when he first met Rhodey-bear, when they’d do all that they could to make each other’s lives harder before just deciding that it was easier and a whole lot more fun to be chill rather than be jerks. That was how most of his friendships went, really.

           He wasn’t always the best with emotions, or being gentle with them. Tony was a blunt asshole, he knew that. He said it like it was. But he knew that the fragile relationship he had with the kid would shatter completely if Tony said, _I pity you a lot because you don’t know what fucking broccoli is and you’ve been showering in -200º water for your whole life, but whatever._

           “Stark,” Bucky said sternly. “This might sound really bad but I promise I’m trying to be reassuring–”

           They shared a laugh. It was strained, sure, but it was something.

           “–but if they trained him the way I think they would train someone that young, he doesn’t even know what hate is,” Bucky finished. “He probably thinks you’re weird, or crazy, or just a really good liar.”

           “Because that’s better than hating me,” Tony sniffed.

           “It’s as normal as these things can be, I thought that when I hung out with Steve after,” Bucky waved his metal hand, “all that.”

           “He doesn’t have a Steve, is the thing.”

           Bucky took a breath, “Then give him one. You can be his Steve.”

           They were silent for a while, then. Tony abusing his stress ball and Bucky staring into space. It wasn’t strained, though, unlike when they were in a room alone most of the time. It was a mutual, respectful silence. Letting each other think.

           “You know, a name would do him good,” Bucky broke the silence. “Something to call him by. Steve called me Bucky all the time, that’s a part of why I got better before I went over to Wakanda.”

           “A name.”

           “Yeah.”

           “Something that’s not Weapon,” Tony added, resolute.

           Then Bucky stood up and said, “You’re trying, Tony. That’s probably the best he’s ever gotten.”

           Tony sighed, staring at the mutilated rubber in his hand. “Thanks, Barnes.”

           “I mean it.”

⎊

           Tony walked into the kid’s room with food, a bribe that hadn’t worked the other 3 times but would hopefully work this time. He took a deep breath, knowing the kid could hear it, before quietly closing the door.

           “Hey, it’s lunch,” Tony said softly. “I brought eggs, which are the yellow and white things, and some bread and jam. The jam is red, but don’t worry, it’s just blackberries.” He laughed awkwardly. He was used to ridicule, astonishment, or at least some sort of attention, but the spider-kid still hadn’t moved one inch since last night. “I figured you liked bread, but plain bread is bound to get boring eventually.”

           He ignored the 3 other untouched plates right next to the new one.

           “Do you want to read about chapter 2?” Tony had started a habit of reading to the kid, he had gotten through a mundane article about space before moving onto an old novel he found god knows where. He was reading the Giver to him, a simple but intriguing book Tony had read a while ago. Sometimes he stopped to cringe at the similarities he saw between the dystopian society and the kid, but he thought that maybe a think-piece would be good for him.

           A full 6 minutes passed before he saw the kid nod, just slight enough for there to be a difference in the stillness but small enough to go unnoticed if Tony weren’t staring at him so intently.

           Tony let out a puff of air and pulled out the chair by the desk. He pulled the book towards him, noting how the kid stiffened at the shuffling of pages. He did it quickly, not wanting to upset the boy.

           “Jonas watched his father pour a fresh cup of coffee…” Tony started, moving through the sentences slowly. He was never a great reader, but he knew sometimes hearing people talk was better than just sitting with them in silence. Tony didn’t know what to talk about sometimes, so he read, and when he got to a topic he wanted to bring up, he would start talking until his mind brought up a blank. Then he’d read again.

           Bucky had told him the kid probably needed routine, that was why he was so quiet and immovable. HYDRA had most likely had him on a strict schedule, and he needed some sort of schedule for a sense of familiarity. Then when he got comfortable, they could slowly introduce him to freedom.

           He sounded like a goddamn doctor, and it was kind of funny.

           Tony cleared his throat and put on a voice that wasn’t the greatest imitation of the character but was better than nothing at all. “‘I enjoy the Naming,’ Jonas said.

           “His mother agreed, smiling. ‘The year we got Lily, we knew, of course, that we'd receive our female, because we'd made our application and been approved. But I'd been wondering and wondering what her name would be.’” Tony paused, mind hovering on the subject of names.

           “You know, a name would do you good,” Tony said, echoing Bucky.

           “Weapon,” the boy answered, so quietly that it was barely inaudible. “Weapon Eleven. That’s my name.”

           “A real one,” Tony insisted. “A person one, not a thing one.”

           The boy turned to look at Tony, and Tony would be lying if he said it wasn’t a little unnerving. The rims of his chocolate eyes were red, and there were bags that didn’t belong on a baby face like his. “A person one?” he copied hesitantly, like he was trying to decipher meaning from the words.

           “A person name.”

           The kid seemed a little scared at the idea, and Tony opened his mouth to tell him he didn’t _need_ to have a name, but he interrupted him. “I’m not a person, so I don’t get a person name.”

           Tony stared, mouth open. He clicked his jaw shut, shocked. _Is this what they told him in there? That he wasn’t a person?_

           “Of course you’re a person, I don’t know what’s rattling around in your brain but I’m not going to call you Weapon.”

           The kid shrugged, like he didn’t care what he was called. God, he’d probably been called worse.

           “What do you say, buddy?” Tony poked, looking for any sort of negative reaction to the notion.

           The kid turned back into a ball, like a rolly-polly, Tony thought with amusement but also a little bit of concern. He knew the position the kid was in, he’d seen it plenty of times. It was the _I don’t feel safe here and I’m exposed_ position.

           Tony knew it would take more than a week to get the kid to open up, but Tony was bad at being patient. “I’ll take that as an okay,” Tony resolved by himself.

           He thought for a bit, his mind going to Yinsen. Tony winced, but he suggested it anyways.

           “Yinsen?”

           The kid paused for a long time, then shook his head.

           “Tyler?”

           The kid had the same reaction with almost every one, then Tony, almost out of ideas and just about ready to go on baby name websites, suggested, “Alright, how about Peter?”

           The kid froze. Back to the unnatural silence, it was then.

           “Okay, no names then.”

           “Pe-ter,” the kid suddenly said, quiet and almost with reverence. He sounded out each syllable multiple times, like he was testing the name on his tongue. “Peeeeeeter. Peter, Peter, Peter.”

           “Do you like that name?” Tony asked after the kid was done.

           He nodded slowly, still whispering under his breath.

           “Peter it is then,” he smiled widely. “Hello, Peter.”

           Peter cleared his throat, then in a voice that was still too quiet to be normal but was loud enough to be clear, replied with, “Hello.”

           The kid had a slight Russian accent, but it certainly had American roots. It was sweet and soft, like he had been told to shut up one too many times and it was now habit to keep his voice low and pleasant. He sympathized with that.

           “Do you want to listen to the rest of the chapter?”

           The kid nodded again, back to being a barely-there statue.

           Tony quietly flipped the page, and even if Peter didn’t emote or speak for the rest of the 4 hour session, he did a little happy dance outside the door when he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fyi i actually kind of like the Giver, it has interesting themes but its not way up there into my top 10. my favorite book is probably the Book Thief by Markus Zusak, but idk i like a lot of novels
> 
> thank yall lots of your kudos and comments, i love it when i get them and it encourages me to get these chapters done! it means a lot to me <3
> 
>  
> 
> thank u for reading, ill cya next thursday!


	11. Mission: He Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! hajfajkd
> 
> 1) this chapter was super hard for me to get done on time. schools kicking my ass and im not handling it too well, lol. grades dipped right when all the big projects started happening and i got onto academic probation in a program ive been in since forever, its a lil scary for me since my dad is one of those parents who expects nothing less than A's. oh well 
> 
> 2) im gonna be doing irondad week 2019 on tumblr, so the chapter that supposed to release on the 14th wont be out then, since ill be doing that. im absolutely not abandoning this, though! 
> 
> 3) CAPTAIN MARVEL CKAJGHCJ im gonna go see it saturday and im so excited aaaa!!!!!!
> 
> no trigger warnings today (but if i need to add one pls let me know!!!!) 
> 
> enjoy!! :D

           The name tasted weird. Peter. Like he was something, something that mattered in a good way. 

           He held his wrist, thumb tracing scars. The new one was still pink, but unremarkable. He wondered if he’d get more, when he returned to the facility. Probably.

           When he reached to rub his shoulder, the opposite of the one sore from the arrow, his skin hissed in a muted way. He was used to the wounds from malfunctions, his chip had gone numb a long time ago, but they didn’t hurt any less. 

           He cleared his throat, his voice loud in the quiet of loneliness. He cringed at that.

           Stark had left the book on the desk. He could read the title from the ceiling– the Giver. The story was strange, it didn’t seem remotely true to history nor to the present. He’d heard nothing of this Jonas person, or of a Naming ceremony. Was the story a book of lies? 

           He had wanted to stop Stark during his reading, ask so many questions, but they all tasted bitter in his throat when he tried. Even that simple hello had been daunting, unnecessary and unneeded and  _ without a purpose.  _

           But he would be lying if he said he didn’t feel good to see Stark’s emotion when he did speak. 

           Peter.

           The name tasted weird, but so did warm bread. 

           He watched the book as if it would move, he could hear the pages flipping. He knew that Stark didn’t know his Words, but the cracking of the spine and the sound of fingers on paper made his skin crawl.

           He took a deep breath, and jumped down. Pushing aside the plates of food, nose wrinkling at the smell, he picked up the book. The cover wasn’t extraordinary, and the bookmark Stark had used was what looked like a thin, old receipt. 

           He opened to chapter 3, slowly lowering himself onto the chair. 

           He’d never been the best reader, much to the chagrin of his moderators, but he supposed he could try. 

❖

           His finger he was using to track the words was beginning to cramp, but he didn’t really care. He was nearing the end of the book, and the events so far had caught him. Every so often he would jump when his senses alerted him to a passersby outside the door, but he’d quickly go back to the paper. He flipped the pages silently, eyes flicking down to the number printed in the corner.

           The door creaked, and he shot back up to the ceiling, holding the book close. 

           It took a couple seconds for the intruder to fully enter the room. The person’s heartbeat was wild but their breaths were still, quiet but not quiet enough. 

           His fingers instinctively went to activate his webshooters, but they were absent. Right. 

           He flinched when Captain America stepped past the threshold, closing the door behind him. He hunched down low, making himself a smaller target. This wasn’t Stark. This was the man who took the Winter Soldier. 

           His fists clenched, ready to fight tooth and nail. 

           The blonde searched for a bit before finally looking up. “Ah.” 

           The word was simple, but so, _so_ _loud._

           “Peter, right?” 

           He didn’t really know what to call himself anymore. Stark seemed adamant on giving him a person name, but he had earned the name Weapon. He’d been called nothing else since the purge. It was a label of pride, something to tell others that he was useful. To just get rid of it was treason. 

           “You don’t have to talk, don’t worry,” Captain America said as he sat down in the chair the spider had previously abandoned. “I just thought we might get familiar since you’ll be here for a bit. I’m Steve Rogers.”

           No reply.

           The man reached for the drawers on the desk, and he tensed immediately. He had delicately folded all of his lines, put them underneath a couple other papers. He would’ve put them under the bed if he trusted it. Drawers worked the same all around the world, but apparently beds didn’t. 

           Rogers pursed his lips and held his hands up, obviously noticing how he bristled. “Alright, no touchie, I get it. Buck’s the same way.” 

           He vaguely remembered them referring to the Winter Soldier as Bucky.

           “I really thought you’d be good for him, but I understand why there’s tension,” the captain rambled, leaning his elbow on the desk. “You two have a lot in common, you know.” 

           Rogers looked hesitant. Good. An enemy that was reluctant to attack would make a fight easier to navigate, if one were to break out. 

           “Had,” he seemed to amend. “ _ Had _ a lot in common. He’s better now, thankfully.

           “I think it would be a good idea if you guys talked it out, maybe he could help you with all that and–”

           “No,” he spat.

           “Alright, but–”

_            “No.”  _

           He was not going to make friends with a traitor. The day the Winter Soldier left was the day the administrators decided that they no longer needed to keep the defectives, the day they realized that they used up too many resources and too much time. He could still feel the sting of the metal against his fingers, the ringing of the bang when he pulled the trigger. He was lucky, he knew. He had improved, but the others hadn’t. Not fast enough. 

           “He can help you. Recover. You can do a lot of good with abilities like yours, Peter.”

           “Don’t call me that,” he hissed, staring a hole into Rogers’ forehead. “Don’t call me that.”

           It sounded bad, the way he had said it.  _ Peter.  _ Like he was criticizing a misbehaving child. Stark said it to him like it was a good thing, Rogers said it like he was trying to remind him of something.  _ Not worth it, not worth it, not worth it. _

           “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to help,” Rogers apologized, looking startled. 

           No reply. 

           “Think about it, please,” he started again. “I would love to see you get better because you have so much ahead of you that doesn’t involve being holed up in a concrete cage–”

           Anger reared its ugly head, and he didn’t really think before he opened his mouth. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”  _ Not worth it, not worth it, not worth it. _

           “Okay–”

           “I– I want Stark.”  _ Maybe he could tell him he was a person again. He had no idea why he believed Iron Man of all people, but he felt the safest. As safe as he could be when he was a fox in a den of wolves.  _

           “Think–”

           “No.”  _ He wanted Stark to read to him. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to eat. He wanted to be someone. He wanted to wash the ink off of his arms but it needed to sink in before he could move on. He wanted too much, wanted things he didn’t deserve.  _

           “I can see you want me gone, I respect that.” Rogers stood up, giving him a nervous smile. Like he was trying to be kind but didn’t know how to approach the situation. “Try to eat, okay?” Then he left.

           Anyone walking by could hear the crash of a chair being thrown full-force at the closed door a few minutes later. 

❖

           His head snapped up when he saw Stark walk into the room in something more casual than usual. He could see the arc reactor glow through the fabric of the shirt.

           “I hear Spangles visited you,” Stark said. He relaxed a little, hearing a familiar voice. 

           “I’m not sure exactly what he said, but if it was something about Bucky, then ignore it for now, okay, bud? He tends to say exactly what he’s thinking.”

           He nodded, holding the book closer to his chest. He had finished it just a few minutes ago, wanting to forget about the pile of splinters near the door. The whole interaction had unnerved him. Rogers had said that he wanted the best for him, wanted him to get better, without a lie present in his heart. His heartbeat had been fast, but that was because he was foreign. People were more scared of something new than lying. 

           “He’s not all bad, and that’s a miracle coming from me. He killed my parents, did you know that?”

           He didn’t.

           “HYDRA made him do it, and I spent a long time blaming him. We had a big fight, Steve, him, and I. It was scary for us. Scary for the world…” Stark trailed off, looking for a place to sit and ultimately deciding on the bare bed. “We were stupid, and thankfully someone realized that before we broke something. I still don’t like him, but he’s not a bad person.”

           “He left,” he whispered. “He left, then they left. I can’t forgive a traitor.” His voice sounded watery. 

           “That’s alright, Peter.” The way Stark said it then. He liked the way he said it, like it was special, made him special, made him something. Someone. “You don’t have to forgive everyone. God knows I haven’t.”

           “He– he  _ left,”  _ _Peter_ rasped emotionally. He didn’t notice tears were falling from his eyes until Stark was looking up at him, a wistful expression on his face. 

           “Yeah, he left, but you’re here now, not there,” Stark reassured. “Do you wanna get down from that ceiling so we can talk eye to eye?” 

Peter shook his head, a small hiccup bubbling from his mouth. He put a hand over his lips, trying to stop all his weakness from spilling out where Stark could see it.

           “Hey, cryings healthy. You can cry all you want, okay, kiddo?”

           With permission, Peter sobbed into his hand.

           “There we go.”

           He laid there, crying like a liability on the ceiling, until all of his emotion ran out. Stark didn’t try to hit him, or yell at him, or remind him of his place. He just looked at him almost like he was concerned, not a hint of anger or disappointment on his face.

           “Stark?” he asked shyly, throat raw. 

           “Yeah?”

           Peter held the book upside down where Stark could see it. “I– I finished it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one was longer than it was supposed to be but i felt like yall deserved it since ur gonna have to wait for the 21st, so here it is!
> 
> thank u guys so much for ur kudos and comments, they all mean the world to me! <3
> 
> bye!


	12. Mission: Stay, Like They Didn't Exist at All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wassup! ikik i said last chapter that this would be released on the 28th but i love yall so u get it a week early bc i said so. sadly didn't finish this one thursday, tho so saturday chapter. that schedule is yelling at me but i cant hear it adkskdj
> 
> also spring break is a thing, so i have a lot of time to write and draw!! super hype!! 
> 
> TW mild discussion of psychological torture (just in case!) 
> 
> pls enjoy!

            It took him a long time to figure out that he wanted Stark to stay. He didn’t want Rogers to come back, he didn’t want Romanoff and the red Wanda girl to dissect him with their eyes. He didn’t want the Winter Soldier near him.

            Stark would make sure they stayed away, right? Stark talked to him, and not the way they did at the facility. He didn’t click his tongue at him, demanding attention, he didn’t punish him for talking out of turn, and he didn’t mock him when he got excited after they started talking about engineering and science. Stark didn’t activate him when he cried. He didn’t sneer when his voice broke or when he talked louder than necessary. 

            Stark was all hesitant but assuring words and carefully placed smiles. It scared him.

            It  _ scared  _ him  _ so badly _ , because what if Stark was lying? What if Stark threw his glitches and his weakness and his defectiveness in his face and told him he was worthless?

            He was scared because Stark made him feel. Feel like something. 

            He hoped that even if Stark stomped on his fear and spat on his body that he would never take away Peter from him. It had become as much of an anchor to him as Eleven had.

            Weapon Peter had a nice ring to it. Peter mattered someway, somehow. Eleven didn’t. 

            The word was on the tip of his tongue before Stark left, putting away his tablet he was reading from and tucking the book under his arms. 

_             Stay. _

            4 letters, such a simple request. But it was selfish. He was selfish, for wanting Stark to stay.

            His administrator taught him a long time ago that if he needed it, he would be given it. Everything else was an unnecessary luxury.

_             Stay. _

            He watched silently as Stark slipped out the door with a muffled good-bye, and regret hit him hard.

            4 letters. Hello had been 5. 

            Peter realized that it wasn’t Stark he was afraid of, it was those 4 letters, a simple syllable, 1 word, that paralyzed him so thoroughly.

            It was always words, and what they meant.

_             Friend _ meant 1. 

_             Purpose  _ meant 4. 

_             Us  _ meant 5. 

_             Please  _ meant 6. 

_             Stay  _ didn’t have a number, it wasn’t in the white book, or on the papers, or inked onto his arms. It didn’t scramble his mind until he was submissive and pliable, ready to comply. 

            It was an unidentified threat, but it didn’t have a location. Just a name.

_             Stay  _ meant change. 

            Suddenly the feeling of his nails embedded in the flesh of his arm didn’t feel quite as grounding. 

❖

            It remained there, resting on his lips but not bothering to escape, for a while. Peter took to asking Ms. FRIDAY the time. For a robot, she was quite human. He was used to cold, unseeing cameras and guards with harsh voices who had a habit of obscene gestures while he was showering. It was nice to know that Stark was the only one with access to FRIDAY, even if he still detested being watched. 

            He asked her to read to him sometimes. About the stars and the planets and ships in far away galaxies, surrounded by unfamiliar universes. She didn’t have the low, calming voice that Stark had, but she would do. He let himself get lost in the stories.

            Then something happened. 

            Today, FRIDAY didn’t read to him after Stark left. She played some sort of alarm, but it didn’t sound like one. It sounded like the kind of sounds the noise-maker in the streets made, but softer and sweeter. 

            “FRIDAY?” Peter asked, frightened. 

_             “Yes, Mr. Peter?” _ FRIDAY asked. Stark has programmed her to say the name like he did, with meaning. Good meaning. 

            “You aren’t reading,” he whispered, voice half muffled by his knees that he brought up to his chin. 

_             “Mr. Barnes requested that he share some of his favorite music with you,”  _ FRIDAY explained. “If you don’t like it, Mr. Peter, I can turn it off.” 

            “Mr. Barnes?” Peter whispered, surprised. Who was Mr. Barnes? 

_             “Do you want me to turn it off?”  _

            Peter hesitated, listening for a little. The male singer’s voice was deep but pleasant, soothing. He supposed it was nice. “No, keep it, please.” 

⎊

            Tony was pulled out of his third coffee machine repair that week when FRIDAY told him that the spider-kid had gone to sleep, and that she was going to stop playing music. 

            “I thought you were reading to him again tonight, baby girl,” he said, wiping down his hands. Since when did Peter sleep while he was being read to?  _ Since when did Peter sleep?  _

_             “Mr. Barnes told me that he wished to share some of his music with Mr. Peter, and I thought it was a harmless enough request.”  _

            Tony huffed, pressing the code to his lab onto the buttons in order to leave. The door opened with a  _ shink _ . “Well, if anyone makes anymore harmless requests, tell me first.” 

_             “Of course, Boss,” _ FRIDAY said sympathetically.  _ “I’ll tell you if anyone makes anymore requests regarding Mr. Peter.”  _

            And that was how he found himself in the lounge, waiting for Barnes to say something, god damnit, because he wasn’t going to start off this increasingly uncomfortable interaction with–

            “So,” he gave in. “FRIDAY told me you played music in Peter’s room.”

            “Peter? Is that his name?” Bucky looked up from the TV, which was playing some old-timey documentary that was too quiet to hear. 

            “Yeah, I named him after Steve visited,” Tony said, meeting Bucky’s eyes. He changed the subject swiftly, “Why’d you play music in his room?”

            “‘Cause I thought it’d be good for him,” Bucky shrugged. “Music helps me sleep, you always come out of that place complaining about his  _ $1000 eye bags,  _ as you put it.” 

            “You wanted to help him,” Tony repeated incredulously, “sleep. You wanted to help him sleep.” 

            “Well, sorta,” Bucky said, grabbing the remote to pause the documentary. “I don’t think you’re understanding, Tony.” 

            “I’m trying to. Isn’t trying enough?” Tony echoed, confused. 

            “Yeah, trying is a good first step. Time is a good second. You’re ‘doin good so far, Stark, but there’s a 3 somewhere in between 2 and 4,” Bucky pointed out, making the numbers with his fingers like he was speaking to a preschooler.

            “Tell me what I’m not getting at,” the billionaire told him sternly. “Don’t go easy on me.”

            “That place is a trap,” Bucky managed to get out. “HYDRA? It’s an asylum, and a damn good one. It could be made out of glass, you could wreck their plans, but they’re a bunch of cockroaches, the lot of them.” He took a deep breath, and kept going. “It’s not like the prisons you see this century, ‘ya know? Here it’s all sentences and judges and juries, but over there they let you taste freedom just so they can remind you that you don’t deserve it. 

            “It’s a prison for your mind, Stark. They lie to you so much that you start to believe them, and that’s if they don’t brainwash you then freeze you for 70 years. Their facilities could be made out of glass and they wouldn’t give a damn, because they don’t use something–  _ someone–  _ if they aren’t loyal.”

            “I know HYDRA is bad, Barnes, really bad,” Tony interrupted. “But you’re rambling.” 

            Bucky lifted his chin, and Tony saw Peter in his eyes. The stoney kind of stubborness they both seemed to share. “No, I really ain’t. I want the best for the kid, I do. I wanna let him know I care, and if that comes in the form of playing the Ink Spots for him to help him out, then I’m as happy as can be.”

            “Bucky–”

            “I’m just ‘tryna help him feel, and if he keeps reprogramming himself like that, then he’s likely already forgot how to. Properly, at least.”

            Tony huffed, running his hands through his hair.

            That uncomfortable quiet was back.

            “He said something about glitching. When I was showing him his room.”

            Bucky stiffened. 

            “Does that have something to do with this  _ reprogramming _ you mention?” Tony asked quietly, trying his hardest not to trigger memories for the soldier. He knew those weren’t fun at all.

            “Glitching… they never gave me time to do that while I was awake,” Bucky began again. “They talked about it, if I might do it. Talked about deactivating like they could just turn me off,” he snapped his fingers, “like that. I figure they could.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah,” the man breathed, shifting. “Hopefully they didn’t leave something on him. They broke those ones extra.”

            “What do you mean by  _ leave something on him?” _

            Bucky looked at him, lips pursed. “If he was lucky, he didn’t get a chip implanted."

            “A chip?” Tony asked, brows furrowing. “Like a computer chip?”

            “S– something. All I know is that the soldiers who got stuck with them… they weren’t there when I woke up next. Gone, like they didn’t exist at all.” Bucky turned off the TV, stretching his legs. He seemed uneasy, and Tony felt guilty for pushing him about his past.  “I think I’m gonna hit the hay, don’t stay up too late, Iron Man.”

            Tony was still processing information when the lights in the tower shut off, leaving the city so much darker than before. He went back to his room, noticing it felt distinctly emptier without Pepper. After standing in front of it for more than he’d willingly admit, he plopped his heavy body onto the mattress. Even the feeling of his own bed couldn’t pull him into rest, though. His mind kept going back on everything the kid had said, every little detail. 

_             When you temporarily deactivate. _

_             Warm water is a privilege.  _

_             He left, then they left. _

_             I’m not a person, so I don’t get a person name. _

            Tony clenched his fists in the sheets. Whoever the fuck told Peter that was going to get themselves violently turned inside out and then some. 

            Yeah, okay. No sleep for him tonight. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanted to thank everyone a lot for ur feedback!!!! u guys make me smile so much i can't,, thank yall enough ;w; it makes my week a little brighter when i get emails, im eternally grateful <3 <3
> 
> see u guys thursday probably? probably. definitely not in a month lol. bye!


	13. Mission: Always

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hAPPY BIRTHDAY RDJ WE LOVE U 
> 
> AND THAT TRAILER??? HHHASDLK it hit me RIGHT IN THE FEELS–
> 
> anD I GOT A WONDERFUL PIECE OF FANART THAT I LOVE AND ADORE AND I NEED TO SHARE IT RIGHT. NOW. 
> 
> https://alihiroshi.tumblr.com/post/183799344650/so-lets-make-our-own-word-by-viviixen-is-a
> 
> PLS GO SUPPORT HER ^^^ 
> 
> THIS CHAPTER IS FOR U ILY <3 <3 <3 
> 
> TW panic attack (pls be safe!!)
> 
> enjoy!!!! <3

           It was bothering him, now. How he was left alone until dinner that he never ate came in, bringing Stark along with it. 

           He had nothing to do, his mind was going stale. His eyes darted to the door whenever he heard footsteps, hope that it might be Stark grabbing him tight. That hope left finger-shaped bruises when the door didn’t open. 

           This particular restlessness was unfamiliar, he had only experienced it while his moderators were turning off the air conditioning in his quarters. The wait nagged him with  _ whens  _ and  _ what ifs _ . 

           He talked to FRIDAY. She comforted him. He knew that she was an AI, but she felt real when everything else felt fake and Stark wasn’t there to read it away. 

           She had started saving the songs he liked. Other people began to add to his  _ album,  _ as FRIDAY called it. He still didn’t know who Mr. Barnes was, but he shared his music frequently. 

           Mr. Barnes liked gentle and low music, he noted. Songs about love or hope, accompanied by the noise-maker FRIDAY told him was called a guitar.

           Stark added a few pieces. He had a very varied taste in music, from loud, rambunctious songs that managed to be surprising but not harsh, to songs without words at all. Pianos, a different type of noise-maker, were frequent in the wordless ones. 

           Today Romanoff added one. It was also wordless, but it was energetic and happy. Violin, FRIDAY explained. Lindsey Stirling was one of Black Widow’s favorite creators. He listened to that one for a long while, wondering why Romanoff would care enough to share her music with him.

           But even FRIDAY couldn’t stop his mind from wandering. She was comforting, yes, but she wasn’t Stark. She only talked when he talked to her. It wasn’t distracting enough.

           His arms were getting raw, a hopeless struggle for something to help him stay. 

           He tugged at his hair experimentally, but that only relieved him for a second.

_            His administrator handed him the book, a smile on his face. “Congratulations,” he said, “you’re in the big leagues now.” _

           He felt his cheeks heat up at the memory, warm and soft. He tugged at his scalp again.

_            “Yessir!” He replied, struggling to keep his voice monotone.  _

_            “Don’t give me that,” his administrator sighed, and lovingly patted him on the back.  _

_            He clenched his fists, confused. “What, sir?” _

_            His administrator clapped his hands, fondly exasperated. “This is  _ the  _ occasion, Eleven! Show some emotions, live a little!”  _

           What day was it? How many hours did he have left? 

_            “What emotions, sir?”  _

_            “Good boy.”  _

           His gut clenched. 

_            “Hey, cryings healthy. You can cry all you want, okay, kiddo?”  _

           Stark let him cry. He could feel with Stark. Where was he? 

_            “No matter what occasion, you ask me that, alright spider?”  _

_            “Of course, sir.”  _

_            “You’ve always been my favorite weapon. You find your way around things, instead of through them.”  His administrator put down the pen he was fidgeting with, clicking his tongue at him. “But when it comes to me, spider, you just accept.”  _

_            “Thank you, sir.”  _

           He pinched himself. Hard. His nails were bitten down and his scalp was sore. His arms were getting raw. 

_            “Then why, Eleven, do I see you laugh with the others, hm?”  _

           “FRIDAY? Can—“ 

_            “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”  _

_            His administrator slammed his hand on the table, making him jump. His smile turned cruel. “Bullshit. ‘What emotions, sir?’ you ask. You know damn well what emotions.”  _

_            “Sir, you misunderstand—“  _

           “FRIDAY?” 

_            “Oh, I misunderstand? You lied to me, didn’t you?”  _

_            “Sir—“  _

_            “Didn’t you?” His administrator barked. _

_            “Yes, sir,” he admitted , ashamed. _

           “FRIDAY?” 

_            “Yes, Mr. Peter?”  _ FRIDAY answered.

_            “I’ve done everything in my power, everything, you hear me? Everything to make sure you’re their favorite, too. Because I love you, Eleven.”  _

_            He stayed silent, unsure of what his administrator wanted.  _

_            “I love you, Eleven,” he prodded, obviously looking for an answer. _

_            “I love you too,” his tongue halted on the  _ sir _ , knowing he was fishing for another title. “I love you too, Master,” he finished honestly. Because he did. _

_            “It’s good to know that you’d lie to me even if you loved me, spider. I love you, but you deserve it. Because you’re out of line.”  _

           “I— is Stark available?” 

           FRIDAY told him to wait, and she paused for far too long. 

           “FRIDAY? FRIDAY?” 

_            “I understand, sir. It’s my fault.”  _

_            “What’s your fault, now?”  _

_            “Laughing, sir.”  _

_            “Apologize.”  _

_            He sucked in air.  _

_            “Now! Apologize now!”  _

_            “I’m so very sorry, sir, for feeling, and in result, laughing.”  _

_            “Good boy.”  _

_            His heart swelled at the praise. He couldn’t help how the corners of his mouth raised and his face flushed.  _

           “FRIDAY?” 

_            “Mr. Stark is currently heading towards your position. Do you want music?”  _

           “Y— yes, please.”

_            “What kind?” _

           “T— the kind Stark likes, the piano ones. Or Mr. Barnes.” 

_            “Of course, Peter.”  _

           He decided being called Peter really did feel better than being a good boy. 

           The first song he’d heard filtered through the speakers, Mr. Barnes’ song, the singer’s slow voice filling the silence. He knew FRIDAY had told him the name of the song, but he couldn’t bring himself to remember.

_            “Mr. Stark will arrive in about 7 minutes.”  _

           He knew he couldn’t bring himself to ask Stark to stay yet, but perhaps he could ask something else. 

           He noticed that his senses didn’t buzz when Stark opened the door.

           The sound of his concerned voice, genuinely worried for Peter’s safety, made him warmer than his administrator ever had.  _ Something,  _ it assured him,  _ someone.  _

           “Hello,” Peter started, the mundane words still foreign to his tongue, “I’m– I’m alright.”

           Stark raised an eyebrow at him, obviously not believing the lie. “FRIDAY told me you were in distress.”

           Peter tensed, was FRIDAY like Wanda?

           “Oh, oh don’t worry, kiddo. We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Stark explained softly. Like he cared.

_            If you don’t want to.  _

           He’d never had those words aimed at him before, it sucked all the sounds right out of him, leaving him empty. 

           “If I don’t want t– to?” he managed to stutter out, eyes wide. “B– but it’s not my right to decide?”

           He hated how shaky his voice was, how everything suddenly ended in a question mark.

           Stark put his hands on his hips, letting out an indignant “Of course it is! Human rights, kiddo.” 

_            I’m not a person  _ echoed in his head quietly, and he almost said it out loud. “I’m– wh– I don’t have to?”

           “If you’re not comfortable,” Stark said stubbornly, sitting on the edge of the bed again, “then absolutely not.”

_            If you don’t want to. _

_            If you’re not comfortable. _

           “I’m confused,” Peter whispered. “I’m a weapon, your wish is my command.” 

           He hoped Stark understood. This freedom was too much all at once. 

           “You’re not anything you don’t want to be, Peter.” Stark sounded stern now, there was no room for argument. 

_            Peter.  _ “I’m Weapon Peter,” he explained. “Sir.” 

           Stark stood up, coming right underneath him. “Kid, if you’re scared, then tell me, alright?”

           His senses were silent, and it unnerved him. Utterly quiet, even as Stark reached up to him and touched his forehead with 3 gentle fingers. 

           “Mr. Stark, sir?”

           “Do I feel like metal, kiddo?” 

_            Knees hit the tiles. Today the Dark Room was alight. _

           His hands were shaking. “Of course not, sir.”

_            “Do you feel, паук?” he asked, voice ricocheting off the walls. _

           Stark’s eyes went warm, the hard line of his mouth melting.

_            “I do.” _

           “Weapons feel like metal. If I don't feel like metal, then why would you?” Stark asked, as if it were the simplest thing to learn. “I am Iron Man, after all.”

_            “If you resist, you’ll be sent in for deactivation, do you understand?”  _

           “Because I _am_ a weapon.”

_            “I understand,” he breathed, eyes trained on the bagged head in front of him. His mouth tightened.  _

_            Pages flipped. His administrator clasped his hands together, a mirthless smile on his lips and eyes staring into his soul. _

_            They lifted the bag.  _

_            “Друг.” 1.  _

           “If you’re a weapon, then I’m a nuke.” He couldn’t help but flinch at how different Stark spoke. Not in Russian. Not in orders.

_“_ _Брусья.” 2._

           Stark’s hand was warm and grounding. “Peter.” 

           A promise.

           He grabbed Stark’s hand, desperate for it to  _ stay. Stay, please.  _

_            “ _ _ Навсегда.” 3.  _

           “Did I deserve it?” Peter croaked. He couldn’t ask Stark to stay just yet, but he could ask something else.

           “No,” Stark told him with complete confidence.

           Peter’s mind stilled, halfway through 4. 

_            The gun felt cold on his fingers. _

           “No, you didn’t. Because you’re Peter, you’re a person.” Mr. Stark’s coffee eyes were unwavering. Grounding. 

           “I’m Peter,” he repeated. “I’m a person.”

           Mr. Stark tapped him with his fingers, his smile bright. “Not metal, someone.”

           “Are you sure?” Peter asked, hopeful. Hopeful that there would be no bruises, this time. 

           “Always.” 

           Today, he didn’t need to ask Mr. Stark to stay. His words lingered without him.

_            If you’re not comfortable. _

_            You’re a person. _

_            Always. _

           Peter touched the corners of his lips, then quickly tried to hide his face when he realized what was happening. 

           His attempt to hide his smile was futile. Mr. Stark smiled back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MR STARK!!!
> 
> thanks for putting up with my bullcrap, lol. say I'm gonna update on the 28th then I update like a week before and leave y'all hanging. I'm sorry ;w;;;
> 
> but thank u guys so much for all the comments and kudos! I'm so grateful for them <3 <3 it makes me super happy that people actually like??? my writing??????
> 
> pls go check out @alihiroshi on Tumblr for more amazing art!! 
> 
> see y'all next Thursday! <3


	14. Mission: What Do You Want?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its on time!!!!!! (its thursday my dudes) :D hi!
> 
> no TWs for this chapter, it's really mild today (fluffflufffluff) 
> 
> pls enjoy!!

            Mr. Stark came more now. He was still the one doing most of the talking, but Peter wasn’t afraid of his own voice anymore. He told Mr. Stark what he learned in academic training, about history and math and sciences. Mr. Stark told him about what he learned in the world. 

            After being on the ceiling for so long, the hardwood felt strange. But it was nice, sitting on the floor just… talking. Where he could see Mr. Stark without craning his neck. 

            It reminded him of the time back before he reached 10, when his administrator would sit him down and explain rules instead of only seeing him every other day. 

            But with Mr. Stark, it was never about rules. It was about how bad he was at cooking unless it was Italian food, it was about that one time he accidentally drank motor oil when Dum-E gave it to him. In reality, it was meaningless babble, but it wasn’t meaningless to Peter. 

            He realized that he didn’t want Mr. Stark’s information. He didn’t want his head to roll, because he was almost like his administrator now.

            That thought surprised him. 

_             Disloyal,  _ his brain hissed at him.  _ Traitor.  _

            But as Mr. Stark laughed at himself upon finishing the motor oil story, Peter thought that maybe he wasn’t a traitor. Mr. Stark was a very powerful man, dangerous and influential and  _ kind.  _

            He could have 2 administrators, he concluded. It was the same as having multiple moderators, they just had differences in coding him. 

            “Do you like building stuff?” Mr. Stark asked him, snapping him out of his head. 

            He paused for a few minutes. He could like things by himself? His first administrator always chose for him what to do, and he gradually began to enjoy his routine. 

            What did Mr. Stark mean by  _ like _ ? 

            “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir,” Peter said respectfully, giving the older man his full attention.

            “Like coding, or engineering,” he explained.

            Peter perked up, that’s what Mr. Stark was talking about! “I have not programmed any weapons or recruits, it is not my place nor my job, but I am willing to learn, Mr. Stark, sir!” 

            Mr. Stark shook his head, “Uh, no. I don’t mean coding… people.” 

            “Then what?” 

            Peter jumped at his words. That request had sounded informal and rude, he should apologize. He opened his mouth to correct his glitch, but Mr. Stark interrupted him.

            “Coding machines,” he told him. “Like FRIDAY, she’s code.” 

            “Oh!” Peter exclaimed, finally figuring it out. “You mean inanimate intelligence manufacturing, sir?” 

            Mr. Stark looked confused. “Um, sure. I call them artificial intelligences, because that’s what AI means.” 

            That was okay, Peter thought. Mr. Stark just had a different way of naming things. The artificial intelligence program in the facility used to be part of the ATHENA project, and it ended when Peter finished his programming and gained an administrator. 

            But Peter was still confused. “What do you mean by  _ like?”  _

            Peter could certainly build things, he had excelled in the sciences and math was almost boringly easy for him, which was why he had been chosen. He worked his way around problems, not through them. It made him easier to direct. 

            “Well, kiddo,” Mr. Stark hesitated for a few seconds. “Do you feel like you would build stuff if you didn’t have to?” 

            Peter fidgeted, back straight. “If you want me to, I can build for you, sir.” 

            Mr. Stark sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “No, kid.” He set his shoulders. “I mean  _ like  _ as in, would  _ you  _ want to build something even if no one told you to build something? For fun.” 

            Peter clenched his hands. “That’s a glitch,” he said slowly. Executing actions without a command was one of the more serious glitches, just a few could lead to reprogramming. Especially if the action itself was unnecessary, like speaking out of turn or eye contact. 

            Mr. Stark waved his hands, like he was erasing a chalkboard. “Whatever, let’s forget about glitches for now. Have you ever built anything before?” 

            Peter tilted his head, resting his weight on his palms. He avoided the urge to curl up. “I made my webshooters.” 

            Something like surprise flickered on Mr. Stark’s face before disappearing. “Did you enjoy doing that?”

            Peter thought for a bit. It was a long while ago when he made the webshooters, back when his moderators realized that altering his DNA to produce organic webs wouldn’t work without destroying him. 

            “I did, at least I  _ think _ .” 

            Mr. Stark leaned back. “There you go. Would you build them again?” 

            Peter nodded quickly, “Yes, sir.” 

            “But would you  _ want  _ to?” Mr. Stark prodded, putting his elbows on his knees. It seemed Mr. Stark never really stopped moving, from tapping his fingers to talking with his hands. 

            Peter was the exact opposite, statue-esque and focusing on the questions hard. 

            “If you want me to,” he resolved. He felt like biting his lips, he was so confused. He didn’t couldn’t want anything, he didn’t want anything. He didn’t know how to want something. Wanting wasn’t necessary. 

_             The last time he wanted was the first time they activated his chip.  _

            Mr. Stark sounded tired, but his eyes were kind. He was slowly showing Peter his pages. “This isn’t about what  _ I  _ want. What do  _ you  _ want?” 

            “I can’t,” he blurted, getting frustrated with all these questions he couldn’t answer. How old was he? What was he? Who was he? What did he want? “I can’t want, sir. It’s not within my privileges.” 

            “But you’re a person, remember?” 

            Peter’s nose wrinkled. His fists curled tighter.

            “How about I come in tomorrow, and bring some tinkering tools? To see if you like building,” Mr. Stark compromised. “We can talk about different things, now.” 

            Peter nodded, calming. “Yes, please, sir.” 

            Though his body was still, his mind was running miles.  _ Yes, please.  _ He had just asked something. Something he wanted, even when he couldn’t want. 

            Paradoxes were now becoming commonplace, and he couldn’t stand it. 

            He was Weapon Peter, he had a code and a serial number and programming and irregular, artificial blood. But he was also a person, with a mind and a heartbeat and flesh on his bones. 

            He jumped when Mr. Stark’s hand rested on his, lifting his nails out of his arm. Blue blood leaked from his skin in small beads. 

            “Oh, Peter,” Mr. Stark said empathetically. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have overwhelmed you.” 

            Peter’s eyes moved from his arm to Mr. Stark, his mouth open. 

_             I’m sorry. _

_             Apologize for making him feel bad, immediately. He’ll hate you after this, he’ll leave you to rot in this room and then move your body to a cell where you won’t take up any more space. You’re a waste. You’re not worth it. _

_             Not worth it, not worth it, not worth it.  _

            “N–no, sir. Not at all,” he stuttered. “I’m fine. I am truly sorry for disturbing you so, Mr. Stark, sir. I did not mean to distress you through my glitch.” 

            “Peter–”

            “I accept any punishment you give me, sir. Silently, this time, as to not upset you further.” 

_             “This time?”  _ Mr. Stark barked. 

            “I know my administrator did not appreciate it when I cried, so I’ll try my very hardest, sir, to be worth your time and attention–”

            “ _ Peter _ , look at me.”

            His head snapped up. He’d made a mistake, he’d glitched too bad–

            “This,” he said slowly, “time?” 

            Peter bit his lip. 

            Mr. Stark shook his head and huffed, running his hands through his hair. “Jesus, spiderling. I don’t know what to do with you.” 

            “Whatever you want, sir,” Peter answered instinctually. 

            “I want you to tell me what  _ you  _ want, Pete,” Mr. Stark breathed. “But only if you feel safe.”

_             Pete, _ like he cared enough to give him a nickname. Like he wanted him to be safe.

            Peter went to pierce his arm again, but Mr. Stark took his hand and moved it away. 

            What did he want? 

            His voice quivered, small and unsure. “Can– I– sir, I w–want you to  _ stay.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so for y'all who follow my tungle u've seen the big irondad fic collab im doing with @hello-abnormal-fangirl. just wanted to plug it here because honestly the more people working with us the merrier!! go check out her blog!!! 
> 
> and thank y'all lots for comments and kudos. i say this every freakin time but i love them?? and y'all??? so much??? thankyouthankyouthankyou 
> 
> pls have a nice day/night, hydrate urselves, EAT (be nice to urselves pls) 
> 
> see u next thursday!!!


	15. Mission: Practice, Promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *heelies in* ANGST ANGST ANGST ANGST
> 
> hi!!! :D
> 
> so i went to try to reply to some comments when i accidentally hit statistics and w h a t i didn't know user subscriptions existed much less that i had 18 of them??? thank y'all a lot???? im so confused but im happy so it works out 
> 
> AND I HAVENT REPLIED TO ANY COMMENTS but i see and read all of them and u guys r amazing and ily!!! i'll work on being more responsive i promise ;w; 
> 
> this ones super long and has a lot of stuff goin on so if you think i need to add a TW, PLEASE TELL ME!!!!! i want this story to be safe for everyone to read!!!
> 
> TW for gun violence and gore that's not too graphic but still there, child abuse, there's also vomit at the end of the chapter
> 
> i would also just like to say that this chapter has a lot of cuddles and stuff and that every things nice and platonic ^w^
> 
> pls enjoy!!!

_It was just a routine checkup, he told himself. They did this every month, you shouldn’t be as scared as you are._

_He pinched himself. He shouldn’t be able to be scared._

_He hoped Dr. Schneider didn’t label him defective. It’d be humiliating to be the first._

_His cellmate shifted in the corner. He looked about as nervous as he felt._

_Dr. Schneider arrived at their cell. “Ten and Eleven,” she said, scrutinizing their postures. Eleven sat straight, eyes turned respectfully downward._

_“Poor performance, Ten,” she clicked her pen._

_Ten shuffled and stood at attention, hands behind his back. He hid his shaking poorly. The poor boy’s dark skin was bruised from yesterday’s training. His heart was too soft, and that made his skin easy to break._

_Coward._

_Dr. Schneider turned her head to the pair’s moderator, tapping her pen on the clipboard. “Has he had any recent developments?”_

_The moderator shook his head. “All standard mutations so far, nothing incredible.”_

_“What about Eleven? Has he been doing well?”_

_The moderator smiled then, lifting himself onto his toes. “Eleven has had increasingly positive reports, his marks in academic educations are exceptional and he’s adjusting well to coding.”_

_Ten turned a bit to give him a hateful glare. Eleven glared right back, eyes full of venom._

_“I’m not asking for his marks,” Dr. Schneider snapped impatiently._

_The moderator shifted. “His mutations are included in those positive reports, ma’am. His balance has improved significantly.”_

_Dr. Schneider hummed, scribbling down notes deftly. She clicked her tongue, and the boys attention snapped back to her. “Get them out of there.”_

_“Ma’am…” the moderator hesitated._

_She snapped her fingers urgently, “Now, please!”_

_The moderator fumbled with his keys before sticking them into the lock and hefting the barred door out of place._

_She waited to see if they would do anything, and though the sound of metal on hard floors grated on Eleven’s overly-sensitive ears, he didn’t move an inch. Ten flinched._

_She shook her head, lips pursing. “Are all of them like this?”_

_“Not all, ma’am,” the moderator replied nervously._

_“Most?”_

_“I’m afraid so.”_

_Dr. Schneider clicked her tongue again, regaining the boys’ focus. “Eleven.”_

_Eleven perked up, back straight and hands curled._

_“Your records are phenomenal, spider. However, I see you have a recent increase in documented behavior issues,” she aimed that last part at the moderator. “I assume we have those ironed out.”_

_“Yes, ma’am,” the moderator answered._

_“And that occurred due to the hormones?” She raised an eyebrow that the moderator, the question unspoken. Or something else?_

_The hole in his back burned._

_“Yes. Once we removed him from the hormone treatment and implanted him, he’s had none since.”_

_“Of course. We should’ve seen that coming.” She folded her writing utensils and the clipboard behind her back, turning so the other cells could hear her better. “This is an elimination,” she announced._

_Whispers stirred, but none dared to interrupt her._

_“I’m afraid to inform you all that ten of you will no longer be serving us. Tragic indeed.”  She looked right at Eleven then, her usually distant and uncaring green eyes now expectant and frigid. “But, we can only afford one.”_

_He should’ve seen this coming, they all should’ve. They noticed the food was running low, and there were too many transfers in the span of a couple months. They were growing weaker, and this was a play to regain ground and resources._

_A purge, was the ripple among the cells. This was a purge._

_“Get them up,” she barked at the guards and moderators. Her German accent was frightful against the silence._

_“All of them, ma’am?” A guard called nervously._

_“Yes! I expect them to be prepared in an hour, at the most,” she pointed a crooked finger at Eleven. “You, come here.”_

_“Полагаю, вы поняли меня достаточно, чтобы подчиниться?” she asked, the Russian clumsy yet understandable on her tongue._

_I assume you understand me enough to comply?_

_“Полностью, Доктор.” Completely._

_“Хороший мальчик,” she smiled, the gesture not reaching her eyes. “Let us practice guns while we wait.”_

_She put a hand on his back as she led him to the Dark Room, falsely gentle. Blank walls closed in on him and 10 pairs of spiteful eyes drilled holes into his back._

_Even when the guns were loud enough to make his ears sting and the recoil was enough to jar his arm, he stayed obediently quiet._

_“You know,” Dr. Schneider said absently, not bothering to write down his shots, “heart, lungs, intestines, throat, head, kneecaps.”_

_“Yes, ma’am.”_

_“Today, aim for the head.” She walked over to tap his arm into place so that the barrel stared down the dummy’s forehead._

_The bullet ripped straight between its fake eyes._

_“They make less of a mess, that way.”_

❖

_Today the Dark Room was alight with chatter and people. Guards lined the walls, moderators whispering and eyes constantly flicking to where Eleven stood to the right of the doctor. His moderator, promoted to his new administrator, stood on the opposite wall._

_The whispers stopped, a guard brought in a bagged recruit. A symbol of shame._

_“Do you feel, паук?” he, his new administrator, asked, voice ricocheting off the walls._

_“I do not, sir.”_

_Knees hit the tiles._

_“If you resist, you’ll be sent in for deactivation, do you understand?”_

_“I understand,” he breathed, eyes trained on the bagged head in front of him. His mouth tightened._

_Pages flipped. His administrator clasped his hands together, a mirthless smile on his lips and eyes staring into his soul._

_They lifted the bag. An older woman who never took well to coding, constantly getting into trouble and ignoring the lessons. Four. Of course she would go first._

_“Друг.” 1._

_His fists clenched, and he breathed in through his nose._

_“_ _Брусья.” 2._

_His lungs suddenly felt tight. He’d been preparing for this, he shouldn’t feel. He shouldn’t feel anything._

_“_ _Навсегда.” 3._

_He looks at Four’s pleasing eyes, she knows she won’t get out of this alive._

_“_ _Цель.”_ 4.

_The page flips again._

_“США. Пожалуйста.” 5. 6._

_His nose wrinkles at Four, hearing her tears hit the stone. She looked accepting, it was pathetic on her._

_“Становиться. Доказывать. Десять.” 7. 8. 9._

_She spat onto his bare feet, growling a soft “Fuck you.”_

_“Укусить.”_ _10._

_The sounds disappeared, the colors went muted, the texture of the gun went cold and sticky._

_“Добрый день, оружие.”_

_The trigger bit into his finger, poised and ready. “Готовы подчиниться.”_

_“Огонь!”_

_He unloaded a bullet into her skull. The floor was washed in azure. Her body dropped, limp. Quiet._

_A warped, disgusting ball of pride uncoiled in his chest, sending a warm tingling feeling down his spine._

_They carried Four’s body away, and his administrator sent him another smile._

_He was proud. He had made them proud._

_Dr. Schneider noticeably drew a line onto a blank paper. Then another, and another, each time the gun fired and the floor went blue._

_The last recruit was Ten, he recognized the bruises and the shape. He wasn’t surprised to see him so upset when they pulled off the bag._

_He spoke._

_“I had a family. A dad and a mom and an uncle,” he sniffed. “My name is Miles. Miles Morales, not Ten.”_

_Eleven realized now that the looks Ten gave him were not of hate, but of pity. They felt condescending all the same._

_“I’m a person, and you can be one too,” he gave Eleven a weak smile._

_“Заткни его!” someone barked in the background. “Он рискует всем!”_

_Ten remained unaffected. “Just drop— just drop the gun.”_

_Eleven heard Dr. Schneider silence the guards. “Ждать,” she said simply._

_“Please,” Ten begged._

_Eleven’s lips curled at him, he was making the colors too loud, too bright._

_“Одиннадцать.” Dr. Schneider clicked her tongue, drawing his focus. “Ты знаешь, что делать, не так ли?”_

_The gun clicked, and Ten lowered his head. He was mouthing some sort of prayer._

_“Хороший мальчик.”_

_The praise sent a rush of confidence through him._

_“Огонь!”_

_Ten dropped dead just the same, but the body sounded heavier. Full of memories and hope._

_The line on the paper felt less like a line and more like a stain._

_“He hesitated,” his administrator observed._

_“Unfortunately,” Dr. Schneider hummed. “Take him into the machine.”_

_Eleven considered jerking away when his administrator snatched his arm, pulling him towards his body, but he didn’t._

_He had a family. Miles, not Ten._

⎊

At first, the night was quiet. Peter slept soundly, something Tony wished he could do. The argument over whether Peter should sleep in the bed, though, hadn’t really been an argument and had been more like Tony begging the kid to accept this tiny comfort, at the very least.

The compromise was that Peter was going to be sleeping in the corner. On the floor. With no pillows.

It wasn’t a compromise at all.

It was a little concerning, though, to see Peter react with surprise when he got to do what he wanted. These were all new things to the kid, Tony remembered. They were something akin to miracles. _Privileges._ Things that Tony took for granted.

So Tony made it his number 1 priority that Peter got a choice in whatever he did tonight. Give him freedom.

The kid had listened to him ramble about who knows what, occasionally adding in every once and a while, before he drifted off into dreamland.

Tony was beginning to curse his insomnia until the kid started moving. Just turning over, the movement catching in the corner of his eyes, but something was urgent about it. And Peter was usually so still.

He ignored it until it was obvious that Peter was having a nightmare, his movements becoming more frequent and small gasps of fear coming from his lips.

He whispered something in Russian, and Tony got up from the desk.

Tony tried shaking him, talking to him softly, knowing he would be scared when he woke up.

He didn’t know how to handle something like this, so obviously, he panicked. The kid was thrashing, whimpering in something too close to pain for his liking, for a while now. There was a sort of beeping sound coming from somewhere, and that was only adding to his stress.

“FRIDAY! Baby girl, please, what do I do?” he asked desperately when the gentle approach wouldn’t work.

 _“I recommend dousing him with a cup of cold water,”_ FRIDAY answered, voice quiet as to not wake anyone else in the Tower up.

“Shit, shit, shit…” Tony cursed, quickly opening the bathroom door. Everything was where it had been left, the kid probably hadn’t used it for anything but the toilet after the shower incident. He took a moment to find a cup before filling it with mostly-cold water, he didn’t know which side of the faucet was what temperature, and returning.

He dumped the water on the kid’s face, and suddenly the air was knocked from his lungs.

Tony clutched his hand, wincing. The glass had shattered in his grip, and his back was now very much not happy after he hit the wall with much more force than was possible coming from someone Peter’s size.

Peter was rubbing at his face furiously, tugging at his hair. Tony took way too long, in his opinion, to get up and try to calm him down.

There was a loud beep that almost sounded like a buzzer, and Peter gasped, going rigid.

“Kiddo,” Tony whispered, not wanting to scare Peter even more than he already was. “Kiddo, breathe.” He reached a hand out to grab him on the arm, but the kid violently flinched back with a feral scream.

So much for everyone staying asleep.

“Kid,” he tried louder, this time.

Peter was backed into a corner, eyes wild and afraid. Tony wasn’t getting him calm without a struggle.

He quickly grabbed Peter’s arm, and sucked in a big breath when Peter twisted suddenly, desperate to get out.

“Peter!” Tony called loudly, putting his other hand on his shoulder.

Peter tried to kick out his knees, but Tony stood strong. An iron man.

“Please,” Peter’s voice broke. “Please, I’m a good boy.” He was trembling, sobbing with so much dread utter terror that Tony could _feel_ it.

A sharp spike of anger hit him right in the face.

Another buzz, and Peter cried out.

“Peter,” Tony lightened his grip and Peter slipped through his fingers, curling into a quaking ball on the floor.

“Peter,” Tony tried again, lowering himself so that he could see Peter’s face. “Peter, I’m here. You’re safe.” His hands hovered above the kid’s head. _God,_ he looked so tiny, too tiny.

“M-Mr. Stark?”

“Yeah, buddy. It’s me,” Tony sighed with relief, and let his fingers run soothing circles into Peter’s scalp. “It’s me.”

Peter latched onto him almost immediately, shaking fingers grabbing hard enough to leave bruises. “D-don’t let him t-take me, I’m a g-g-good— I’m a good boy, I swear.”

Tony let himself pull Peter into his arms, not caring about the pinpricks of pain in his side or how his back complained. “I won’t let him. I swear on my life, I won’t let him take you, Pete.”

They were like that for a long time, Peter trying to control his frantic breathing and Tony whispering small promises into his hair.

Peter took a deep breath, and then mumbled, “I-I don’t feel so good.”

Tony quickly tugged him into the bathroom, shuddering when Peter vomited into the toilet. All that came up was bile.

He reached over to pull the kid’s hair back from his face as he heaved into the bowl, tears dropping into the water. “You’re alright.”

Peter eventually stopped, but still clutched the porcelain with white knuckles. Tony could see his face screw up again, and his voice was hoarse when he sobbed.

“You’re alright,” Tony rubbed circles between his shoulder blades, frowning when he felt a small bump. He casually passed over that area again, making sure it didn’t hurt Peter. It didn’t feel like soft skin, or scar tissue. It almost felt a bit like metal, but Tony couldn’t be sure through the fabric of the top-large shirt.

After a particularly painful sounding gasp, Tony turned Peter so he was curled into his chest again. “Shhhh, shhhh,” he cooed.

The bump vibrated under his thumb, and Tony nearly cussed out loud. _What the fuck?_

“I can’t—“ Peter shook, almost trying to push Tony away.

“No, no, Pete. I’m staying,” he said, not loosening his hold on the boy’s small frame. “I’m staying ‘til you’re okay, and then however long you want me here afterwards.”

Peter didn’t respond for a little while, calming down while absently kneading Tony’s shirt like a cat.

Many minutes later, when his knees were begging him to stand up, he realized that Peter had fallen asleep on him.

After Tony decided that it would be a bad idea to put him in the bed, the kid had 2 blankets and 5 pillows nested thoughtfully around him in the corner. He would’ve smiled if Peter didn’t have tear tracks staining his face.

Someone knocked at the door.

He cracked it open, peeking his head outside. Natasha and Bucky stood in front of Steve, looking concerned.

 _Is he okay?_ Natasha mouthed, the corners of her lips tugging into a frown.

“We need to find Bruce,” Tony whispered back, ignoring the question. “ _ASAP_.”

Bucky’s face went white.

“In the meantime, tell Helen she’s going to have a _very_ special patient.”

“Tony,” Bucky said carefully. “Is he…?”

The look in Tony’s eyes must’ve given Bucky the answer he was looking for. He looked at Steve, who didn’t know what they were talking about but looked like he was about to break something.

“I’m gonna need my Rhodey-bear.”

“Tony,” Natasha warned. “What’re you planning?”  

“Those fuckers are going down,” Iron Man hissed back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> translations!!! if somethings wrong or confusing, correct me!!!!
> 
> 1\. Полагаю, вы поняли меня достаточно, чтобы подчиниться? (I assume you understand me enough to comply?)  
> 2\. Полностью, Доктор. (Completely, Doctor.)  
> 3\. Хороший мальчик (Good boy)  
> 4\. паук (spider)  
> 5\. Добрый день, оружие. (this was meant to be "good afternoon, Weapon." but the translator i used translated it to "Good afternoon, weapons." oh well.)  
> 6\. Готовы подчиниться. (Ready to submit.)  
> 7\. Огонь! (Fire!)  
> 8\. Заткни его! Он рискует всем! (Shut him up! He risks everything!)  
> 9\. Ждать (Wait)  
> 10\. Одиннадцать. Ты знаешь, что делать, не так ли? (Eleven. You know what to do, don't you?)
> 
> tell me what y'all think?? theories??? writing errors??? yell at me??? idc i love any and all comments and kudos y'all throw at me, i know i say it every time i end a chapter but thank y'all so so much for the response this story has gotten. you guys r the reason im still writing!! 
> 
> thank u so much for reading (the story and these long af notes, im sorry,,,,) and pls have a nice day/night!!!!


	16. Mission: Families

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! this is that chapter i had so much trouble writing, lol. i know yall told me to stop apologizing but i still wanna say sorry, especially since this one is a bit shorter. i tried to make it longer, but it flowed weird and was almost way too long as one chapter, so i made it two. :/
> 
> ALSO BIG SHOUTOUT TO EMMA, MICAH AND PAIGE ON THE DISCORD, I LOVE U THREE SO MUCH MY HEART DOESNT KNOW HOW TO HANDLE IT. HI!!!!!! 
> 
> TW for mentions of self-harm, drowning, and torture (ripping off nails, whipping) 
> 
> pls pls pls enjoy!!!!! and if u dont tell me why!!!

           Peter didn’t know what happened. Peter didn’t remember last night. All he remembered was Mr. Stark’s absent face, typing on his StarkPad and mumbling, not even noticing when he woke up. All Peter remembered was that he was weak.

           He cried when Mr. Stark left without a word, because suddenly the room felt so much emptier, he felt so much emptier. It was tearless crying, his body couldn’t handle so many emotions in such a short amount of time, so it glitched. He had an overwhelming, all consuming want to call for Mr. Stark again, to fill that space he that couldn’t fill himself. 

           He was weak for it. 

           He clawed at his eyes until they were red. It left his sight blurry and his temples stinging, but he deserved it. He was a fucking disappointment, Mr. Stark was so kind and amazing, and all he got in return was a subpar product. If he was back at the facility, they would’ve torn his nails off and rubbed salt into his lashes that they’d give him with a flexible wire. They would’ve ruined his brand just to retrace it on his skin, the feeling of the glowing hot rod on his back was burned into his brain, the red, serrated knife a phantom touch. 

           He was forgetting who he belonged to. 

           He wanted Mr. Stark, but he had used up all his requests. He had abused them for personal gain, he was selfish and greedy. 

           It was no wonder why Mr. Stark barely whispered a  _ good morning  _ to him. 

           Quickly, that want ate up everything else, all he could see was the loneliness, all he could hear was the silence. The ravenous solitude turned that want into a need, strangling him so thoroughly that he couldn’t breathe. 

           He needed to feel Mr. Stark’s hand, hear his voice assuring him that he was someone. The air felt so cold. He was drowning, icy water filling his lungs, but when he coughed he didn’t feel any on his tongue. 

           The buzz went off, but he was dying, it wasn’t supposed to go off when he was in danger.

           He was trying so desperately to remember the way Mr. Stark felt. He was forgetting already. 

           He should’ve listened to his administrator when he said that no one else was capable of loving something like him, he was young and stupid and hadn’t believed him back then. He thought that maybe someone somewhere would use him differently. 

           FRIDAY’s Irish accent sounded almost concerned when she said softly,  _ “I’m calling Mr. Stark again, Mr. Peter. He hasn’t left the hallway yet.”  _

           A rush of gratefulness coursed through him, leaving him gasping. His head snapped to the door, how long, how long, how long, how long, how long, how long–

           “Pete?” Mr. Stark asked when he opened the door. Peter launched himself at him, suddenly remembering how to breathe, like the man had taken all the water out of the room. He took giant breaths, marveling at the oxygen he tasted. 

           “Peter, I need to see someone,” Mr. Stark said, but he didn’t sound irritated. “I promise, I’ll only be a couple minutes.” 

           “Stay,” Peter begged. “Please.” 

           “Petey,” Mr. Stark repeated. “I can’t.” 

           Peter dug his nails, still attached to his fingers, into Mr. Stark’s clothing-covered arm. “Then take me with you!” his voice broke as he choked on the remnants of the water. It crystallized in his chest at the thought of Mr. Stark leaving his sight. His throat clogged up, and suddenly he was drowning again. “Please! Please, don’t go, I don’t want you to go–”

           Mr. Stark stabilized him by putting his hands on his shoulders. “Peter, I don’t want to call you dangerous, but SHIELD would be on my ass if word got out that I took you out of this room–”

           “Then meet them in here!” He coughed, unable to get breath in. He was going to die alone, Mr. Stark didn't want him. He was throwing him away. 

           “Peter.” Mr. Stark said his name a lot, like he was trying to remind him of something. “Peter, I’ll take you with me. But you have to  _ promise _ , alright?” 

           The Word made his spine go straight and his air disappear. He gagged, and Mr. Stark put his hands on his back, rubbing circles into him. “Breathe,” he cooed. “C’mon, champ.” 

           His lungs expanded.

           He had never experienced this kind of touch, warm and soft and painless, especially paired with a Word, but it was so, so addicting, and Peter never wanted it to end. He grabbed onto the man tighter. “I  _ promise _ , I’ll be a good boy. I won’t make trouble.” 

           Mr. Stark stiffened, and so did his smile. “Buddy, let’s not use those words anymore.” 

           Peter nodded immediately, willing to do anything as long as Mr. Stark was there. He had come back, no matter how many times he shut down and cried in the last couple days. Mr. Stark was loyal, the least he could do was return the favor even if he didn’t deserve it. 

           “Can you get up?” he asked, standing up from his crouch. Peter felt like his head would come loose if he nodded anymore than he was already. 

           “Okay, kiddo. We’re gonna need some rules if you want to leave the room,” Mr. Stark started slowly, probably watching the boy for any negative reactions. 

           He was used to rules, he would follow any Mr. Stark gave him happily. 

           The billionaire held up a finger. “1: I’m gonna need to restrain you, unfortunately. Probably with vibranium, and probably with your wrists behind your back. Are you okay with that?” 

           “Yes, sir,” Peter answered quickly. 

           “2: The person I’m meeting with,” Mr. Stark paused to sigh,” ...will probably ask you a lot of questions. You absolutely do not have to answer any questions that make you uncomfortable, she’s not trying to threaten you. I just want you to know that, kiddo.” 

_            She.  _ “Who?” 

           “Does Dr. Cho ring a bell?” 

           Peter’s head snapped up from where he was counting the specks on the floor at the title, eyes wide. “Doctor?” he whispered. “Am I getting a new moderator, sir?” 

           Mr. Stark shook his head insistently. “No, no no no. Helen is the medicine kind of doctor, not the…” the implication is there, Peter can read between the lines.

           His hands loosen a bit around themselves, his fingers intertwined behind his back like he was already shackled. He wanted to make it very clear that he wouldn’t interfere with whatever and wherever Mr. Stark was bringing him, and putting his hands behind him was a sign of submission. 

           “I’m sorry for assuming,” he apologized. 

           “Nah, that’s okay, kiddo,” Mr. Stark reassured. “Um, 3: please stay with me. I don’t want to make SHIELD even more angry than they already are _ gonna _ be once they realize I took you out of here.” He paused to think. “And 4: no murder or attempted murder, obviously. Are those alright?”

           “Of course, Mr. Stark!” his whole body lit up at the thought of leaving, leaving  _ with Mr. Stark.  _ He was getting out, and he was so excited. The cuffs didn’t even phase him when they clicked shut. 

           The door opened, and he smiled at the hallway he’d seen before, but only once. Mr. Stark guided him with a hand between his shoulder blades, right over his chip, but this time the gesture was pleasant. 

           The silence was the good kind, for once. Not suffocating. Not drowning. Accompanied by the click of shoes and the scuff of Peter’s bare feet. 

           He felt a bit simple next to Mr. Stark, the man looked regal even in a casual T-shirt and jeans. Confidant, something Peter felt less of the farther they travelled away from the room. These hallways were still littered with pictures, but they glared coldly. He wished the walls were bare. 

           Mr. Stark patted him on the shoulder, pushing him to walk more next to him. Peter had instinctively fallen a couple steps behind. He stiffened when their strides lined up, ready for a reprimand, but Mr. Stark just remarked, “Keep up, squirt. You doing fine?” 

           The hallways changed again, the pictures were fewer and doors leading into rooms became more numerous. “I’m— I’m fine,” he replied, too busy looking around to form proper words. Sometimes it felt like just a collection of syllables to him, meaningless. 

           “This is the medical wing,” Mr. Stark began, probably trying to dispel memories from Peter’s mind. Memories of clean walkways and porcelain faces, cold and frail and easy to break. Test dummies that bled when practiced on, only to find out that those were called _people_. “We call it the MedBay. Dr. Cho works here, but she’s usually away most of the time.” 

_            Families.  _

           Peter nodded, showing Mr. Stark that he was listening even if he wasn’t looking. 

           “She was the one I was talking to this morning, she’s very excited to meet you.” He sounded almost strained in that sentence, reluctant. 

           Peter could see the similarities between this medical wing and the facility’s. They both overwhelmingly smelled like bleach and sanitizer, everything cleaned until not a spot of dirt was left. 

           Peter made a face, they both definitely smelled. He shifted his shoulders. 

           “It’ll actually be easier bringing you here than waiting for Helen to work up the courage to go into your room,” Mr. Stark commented, interrupting. “Sometimes she gets a little overwhelmed, but she’s really good at doctor-ing, or whatever.” 

           Mr. Stark gently guided him through a sharp right turn, and the fourth door was where they stopped. He reached out to knock loudly.

           For the first time in a while, his senses buzzed. 

           A woman opened the door. She had brown hair put up in a bun and glasses resting on her nose. She looked tired. “Hello, Mr. Stark, you’re early.” 

           Mr. Stark positioned himself so that he was in front of Peter. Perhaps it was an intimidation tactic? 

           “Hi,” Mr. Stark said bluntly. “Are you Dr. Cho’s assistant today?” 

           When the lady tried to get a peek at him and Mr. Stark moved to block her view, the truth hit Peter  _ hard.  _ It left him internally reeling, and suddenly Mr. Stark’s touch was so much warmer, wearing through the fabric and into his shoulder. 

           Mr. Stark was trying to protect him. 

           She smiled brightly. “Yeah, It's nice to meet you and the young man behind you. I'm May Parker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i didnt say this in the beginning notes bc i feel like long ones of those turn ppl off so im saying it here
> 
> yall are such blessings. i dont deserve yall. the little comments yall left made me feel so wanted and cared for, thank u guys so so so much. im at my moms house now, so im out of that situation, but yall really helped me deal with that. i love u guys a lot. 
> 
> thank yall again, i dont know exactly what i did to deserve that but i appreciate it more than i can express. god im coming close to tears writing this, rip.
> 
> ANYWAYS on a bit of a happier note: IM SEEING ENDGAME IN EXACTLY 9 HOURS AND 31 MINUTES!!!!!! WILL BRING TISSUES AND CHOCOLATE, LETS GAIN THIS GRAIN. >:'D 
> 
> bye yall!!!! the next chapter will probably be posted sooner than thursday bc i still feel a bit guilty, so see ya until then!!!!


	17. Mission: Loss, Half Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Endgame destroyed me and my entire future.
> 
> THIS BEGINNING NOTE HAS SPOILERS!!!
> 
> In summary, I started crying when Tony and Peter hugged and then never stopped afterwards. I spent a good hour after the credits violently sobbing. God, that movie WRECKED me, and the sign off at the end of the credits stomped on the pieces. 
> 
> But once I calmed down enough to form coherent thoughts, I started reflecting a lot, and even though this movie is definitely one of my top 5 movies of all time (right up there with the old animated Lion King and Mulan, nostalgia incarnate), I'd like to start a discussion about stuff that I didn't like!
> 
> Long story short, I wouldn’t be planning out a rewrite if they didn’t write Tony like That™. I hate the way they handled Tony in this movie, he doesn’t feel like Tony. The main thing that bothers me is that they took such a fun, proactive, complex character and put him in a standard white picket fence, American family setting and that ruined my enjoyment of him here. 
> 
> It doesn’t help that I don’t like Pepper as a character. We’ve spent 10 years with this character, watching her constantly tell Tony that she hates Iron Man and that Tony isn’t good enough because he is Iron Man, and I’m supposed to accept that she’s changed her opinion enough by Endgame to fight in her own blue version of the Iron Man suit as Iron Woman, or whatever? If her perspective switched that significantly in that 5 year time jump, then it should’ve been shown on screen. If you don’t SHOW US or TELL US that something happened off screen, then it didn’t actually happen. Writing 101. 
> 
> I really don’t like this attitude where a fulfilled life is one with a spouse and children. I have no interest in raising children, and I feel like this thought process is really exclusionary and close-minded. I know the Russos were trying to give Tony a happy 5 years before they killed him, but Tony isn’t Tony in those 5 years. The Tony Stark I know wouldn’t watch a surrogate son die in his arms and then do absolutely nothing for 5 years. In Age of Ultron, he had a VISION and started working immediately. He prepared for something that he didn’t even know was going to happen, and what did they have him do once it actually happened? Move out into the woods and play housewife. I’m not buying it. 
> 
> The Tony Stark I fell in love with and have idolized for the past 10 years would get off his ass and DO SOMETHING about the billions of people who just died. He would take matters into his own hands. He built Mark I in a cave with a box of scraps and a car battery in his chest, for crying out loud. He wouldn’t give up after Thanos. 
> 
> And now I’m gonna talk about his death. 
> 
> I know a lot of people love how the Russos looped everything back to Tony, and god I love the end credits with the hammering, I really do. I adore it with every fiber of my being. But it wasn’t satisfying for me. 
> 
> Tony’s a character who’s been through some serious shit. PTSD, depression, anxiety, guilt, the whole shebang. He’s the picture perfect example of working through your problems and trying to get better. He’s such a strong person, fictional or not, and his story sends a message that really resonates with me. “No matter what you go through, get up again and try, because it’ll get better.” 
> 
> I was really hoping the kind of rest they gave him would be a happy ending. The message his death sends to me is “No matter what you do to get better and no matter how many times you get up again, you’ll end up losing anyways.” It’s a crap message to send, and that coupled with how out of character Tony seemed bothered me a whole lot. 
> 
> Now think for a couple minutes, if it had been Steve instead of Tony. Imagine how powerful Captain America’s death would be if he died fighting for what he believed in after wielding Mjolnir and calling for the Avengers to assemble. But instead he used the stones to have a life with a woman who already lived her’s, and abandoned his two best friends in the same breath, one of which has no one now. Oh my god, I feel so bad for Bucky and Peter :( 
> 
> These things bothered me enough to where, once I was done being an emotional wreck (read: 2-3 days later), I was angry. I wasn’t super angry, I was just peeved enough to think “I’m fixing this.” Everyone deserved better.
> 
> Again, I absolutely love this movie, don’t get me wrong. I’m definitely buying it once it comes out for DVD. I was crying from complete joy during the entire climax. God, that was satisfying. And Peter and Tony’s hug? Pure, unfiltered happiness. The entire theatre screamed and clapped. 
> 
> Anyways, little rant over. What to you guys think about Endgame? I want to hear your opinions, even if they don’t necessarily agree with mine. Please just remember to be respectful to other people, I can take hate but some people might not be able to. I hope y’all enjoyed it as much as I did! :D

**TW for discussion of starvation and vomit, also needles if anyone here is as scared of them if i am. stay safe!!!! <3 **

**-**

           Mrs. Parker moved out of the doorway, letting them into the room. If it was even possible, it smelt more clean. There was a strange-looking chair, with a reclined back and an elongated place for her legs. She patted it, smiling at Peter.

           He bit his lip and looked at Mr. Stark, unsure. Mr. Stark gestured towards the chair and said softly, “Go ahead, I won’t leave.”

           He would stay. 

           It took a bit of difficulty to maneuver himself onto the chair without the use of his hands, but he managed it. Mrs. Parker sent a strange look at the vibranium cuffs. 

           “What’s your name?” she asked, making small talk while she prepared some papers and pulled a wheeled table with a computer on it towards her. 

           The question made him pause, his name was valuable to him, something he wished only he and Mr. Stark knew. So was his voice, the blend of Russian and East American recognizable if he didn’t put on a fake accent. 

           He looked at Mr. Stark again, asking silently for guidance. 

           “Are you not comfortable answering that?” Mr. Stark asked at the same time Mrs. Parker looked up with a eyebrow raised. She wasn’t condescending or threatening, but she could sell his information, rat him out. 

           Trust was a precious treasure to him, something he only gave out after it was certain that the person wouldn’t throw it in his face. So far only 3 people in the world had it, his administrator, Dr. Schneider, and Mr. Stark. 

           He would like to keep it that way, locked up in a chest and hid deep inside his heart, where not even his code could extract it. It was his special little virus, something he desperately didn’t want to get fixed. 

           He shook his head, not willing to talk. He was scared the woman would steal his voice from his throat if he opened his mouth. 

           “I understand,” Mrs. Parker said kindly, “but we need a first and last name in order to keep your record.” 

           “Kiddo, are you okay with me telling her your name?” Mr. Stark was trying to compromise, but he didn’t understand. 

           Peter frantically shook his head again, mouthing  _ it’s mine.  _

           His name belonged to him, him and Mr. Stark. He didn’t want it plastered everywhere, spread like a disease among the neon street and guitar players. He didn’t want it in another data system, collecting lines. 

           “Leave it under Spider-kid,” Mr. Stark instructed, seeing his discomfort. “Spider-kid Stark.” 

           Mrs. Parker looked skeptical, but nodded. “Alright. So, it looks like Dr. Cho wants to do a blood test and some standard check up procedures, make sure he’s healthy and all that.”

           “Thank you, Mrs. Parker.” Mr. Stark sits down in a cushioned chair against the wall, leaning back.

           Mrs. Parker’s smile falters, but only for a second. “It’s Miss, actually.” 

           She lost someone. 

           Peter’s fists tightened behind his back, and his brow furrowed. Were they someone he had gone after? Had they been a bleeding dummy, the ones that had names? 

           “Miss,” Mr. Stark amended, “Parker. Thanks, for this.” 

           Miss Parker kept sneaking glances at him from behind her computer, and he desperately wanted to turn away, but he stood strong and stoic. 

           The tension tasted bitter, the lights buzzed obnoxiously. There were too little colors, white everywhere. 

           He missed the warmth. 

           Miss Parker hit a button particularly loudly, and dug through the drawers. “We’ll do the blood test last, not everyone likes needles.”

           He could feel his spine straighten.  _ A needle sunk into his arm, he hadn’t healed fast enough. A week too long, a week of wasted time. The infected wound burned on his arm.  _

           This was different, he told himself. Mr. Stark was here.

           His hazel eyes flicked to the man’s dark ones, lips pursing. 

           “That sounds like the best course of action,” Mr. Stark agreed. 

_            He threw up all over the shower, every dose made him sick.  _

           Miss Parker stood in front of him, blocking his view of Mr. Stark, and suddenly he hated her for taking him away. She sat down in a chair identical to Mr. Stark’s, giving him a reassuring facial expression that did absolutely nothing. He could see Mr. Stark’s top half, now, and he relaxed a bit. 

           She clicked a pen, and that was too loud, too soon. He flinched. 

           “What’s your diet like?”

           The silence immediately became uncomfortable. 

           Mr. Stark took a sharp breath. “He hasn’t been eating, I’m afraid.”

           Miss Parker frowned. “Why not?”

_            The food smelled to good, too much. It was too much for him, too much during reprogramming.  _

           Mr. Stark shrugged. 

           Miss Parker stood up, and Peter inhaled loudly, releasing the air through his nose, like she would try to pickpocket his treasure chest any second. 

           He instantly sought out Mr. Stark with his eyes, his skin crawling with nerves, thousands of guilty ants biting his fingers and spine. 

           “How tall is he?” 

           “5 foot 5.” 

           How did Mr. Stark know how tall he was?

           “Do you know how much he weighs, Mr. Stark?” she examined Peter like she could figure it out with her eyes. 

           “No,” Mr. Stark replied simply. “I don’t.” 

           “Let’s fix that, then,” she reached down into one of the open shelves on the computer cart, and pulled out a scale. It was glass, with a small screen. “I have a BMI chart right here,” she tapped something next to the computer keyboard. She placed the scale in front of Peter, glancing at Mr. Stark.

           “Does he need the handcuffs?” 

           “Yes,” Mr. Stark answered immediately. “But they shouldn’t impact his weight, they’re light.” 

           Miss Parker nodded, and then tapped the scale with her toes. “Alright, honey. Step on that and wait for the number to flash, and that’s how much you weigh.” 

           Peter nodded, chewing on his bottom lip. He slid off of the weird chair and stepped onto the scale. 

           Mr. Stark stood up to stand behind Peter, but Miss Parker shook her head when he reached out to put a hand on his back again. Mr. Stark dropped his arm. 

           The number stopped at 78.346, and Miss Parker’s face went pale when it blinked. 

           “What?” Mr. Stark demanded, “Is that not how much teenagers usually weigh?” 

           Miss Parker examined the BMI chart, finger tracking something. “He shouldn’t be 78 pounds, Mr. Stark.” 

           “How much is he supposed to weigh?” Mr. Stark was getting impatient, he could tell by the urgent tone. His pages were a little easier to read, now. 

           “The average for adolescents in their early to late teens that are 5 foot 5 inches is 126 pounds, sir,” Miss Parker explained slowly. “He has a BMI of 13, severely underweight. How much did he eat before he arrived in your care?” 

           Mr. Stark looked at him, and he suddenly wanted to be much smaller. 

           “Kiddo,” Mr. Stark said in a persuasive tone, not exactly patient but not unkind. 

           Peter swallowed around the stone in his throat. Mr. Stark wanted him to talk, so he would talk. “Once a day.” Strictly. Once a day inside the facility, once a day outside the facility. Unless he was being reprogrammed. 

           Miss Parker typed something into the computer, Peter recognized the pattern of her fingers. Something about intake and calories. “I’m afraid I’ll need a bit more information,” she urged. “What kind of things did you eat? When did you eat? Did you keep the food down?” 

           Peter took a deep breath, wetting his lips. “O-oatmeal, bread, f-fruits, and smoothies,” he started. “They introduced me to s-solids 5… 5 years ago,” he estimated, trying to sound confident. “Before then it was berries and liquified food.” 

           “How old were you 5 years ago?” Miss Parker interrupted. 

           Peter paused for a minute, thinking. All the sessions muddled his memories of time. On one hand, it felt like eternities between his visits to the machine, and on the other it felt like only a few seconds. “B-before they told me I was a decade old,” he decided. “I think.” 

           Miss Parker smiled at him, “You’re in the 14 to 16 range, yes?”

           “He doesn’t know,” Mr. Stark said for him. 

           Miss Parker shrugged, though she looked concerned. She was an empathic person. “I’m going to put down that you were 9 years old when you started eating solid food, does that sound good?” 

           Peter nodded. 

           “Okay, what about how much you ate?” 

           “Enough,” Peter answered, certain. They didn’t  _ starve  _ him. 

           Both Mr. Stark and Miss Parker seemed unnerved, now. While Mr. Stark’s face was carefully blank, pages once again hidden, Miss Parker had pity in her eyes. It made his mouth taste bitter and dry. 

           “Stop looking at me like that,” he whispered. 

           “Sorry,” she apologized quickly, looking away. She cleared her throat. “When did you eat?”

           “At… the end of the day.” He had never heard of morning or midday meals before he met Mr. Stark. “Dinners,” he explained. He knew what dinners were. 

           “How often did you throw up the food?” 

           Peter opened his mouth to say  _ not often,  _ but he hesitated. “Sometimes.”

           Miss Parker gently said, “That’s not an answer, honey.”

           “Don’t call me that,” he snapped. She was trying to get familiar with him, trying to get him comfortable. 

           She smiled at him sadly, that look back on her face. He hated it, he wasn’t something to be pitied. He was a weapon. 

           “Kid,” Mr. Stark drew Peter’s attention. 

           The question, right. “I-if I was bad,” he elaborated. “If I was bad they’d put a finger down my throat.” 

           Miss Parker made a face, and Peter heard Mr. Stark’s sharp inhale. 

           Peter continued, “D-during poison training I didn’t get any food at all b-because I would vomit it up.” 

           His stuttering ruined that illusion of confidence he was trying out, but he was extremely uncomfortable using his real voice around people. 

           He shifted, digging his nails into his palms. Mr. Stark would give him a concerned talk later, but now it grounded him, stabilized him.

           He supposed that if Miss Parker did decide to sell him out, then her assumption of his abilities would be impacted by how he spoke. It was a good way to get an opponent to underestimate you: act intimidated. 

           “Well, you need to eat!” Miss Parker said lightheartedly, although her face wasn’t really in the game. She was searching him with her eyes, looking for something she wouldn’t find. 

           Her face fell just a bit, and she turned to Mr. Stark. “Can I talk with you outside for a moment? Just a few seconds.”

           Mr. Stark nodded, and his eyes met Peter’s. He followed her outside.

           The door was louder than it was supposed to be when it shut. Peter could see them outside the windows.

           They were quiet for a bit, Miss Parker was obviously collecting herself, and then she said, “What’s going on here, Mr. Stark?”

           “I’m sorry?” Mr. Stark asked, incredulous.

           “A normal teenager can’t run on 78 pounds and no sleep, Stark. He’s not…” she gestured at herself, “he’s more of…” then she gestured at Mr. Stark.

           “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Peter can’t distinguish Mr. Stark’s tone that well. He knows it’s not the glass preventing him, the glass is thin and barely soundproof, but Mr. Stark’s keeping his book closed. 

           “Don’t bullshit me. I’m not stupid,” Miss Parker retorted. “I just want to help him, it’s my job. I don’t know what he’s been through, I don’t know how easy life has been to him, but every person is someone else to lean on. I want to be someone else.”

           She thinks he’s weak.

_            She’s right. _

           Mr. Stark was silent. Peter could see him thinking. 

           “I like you,” he finally said. “I’m raising your pay.”

           Peter stopped listening, the air was too cold. 

           He wanted to touch his arm, where the needle pierced his skin and injected poison into his veins, but his hands were tied and his skin was prickling. 

           He took a deep breath, and focused on the dots on the ceiling. 

           It’s going to be okay, he lied to himself. Mr. Stark’s here, Mr. Stark stays.

           He knows how to manipulate people, but it’s hard when you’re learning how to be one.

_            Mr. Stark’s here, Mr. Stark stays. _

           Half truths are always better than nothing. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> google docs wasnt cooperating with me on this chapter, so please tell me if you find any mistakes! 
> 
> and thank y'all again so much for reading and commenting, u guys r amazing. idk what i would do without u <3 <3 <3
> 
> pls enjoy the rest of ur week and stay hydrated!!!! springs starting and theres only like 30 days left of school!!! :D


	18. Mission: Inbox, Messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyo!!!
> 
> it was really interesting hearing yalls opinions on endgame. thanks for talking to me, ill try to reply to comments today. :D !
> 
> i did something a lil different this chapter, i hope yall enjoy!!! <3 
> 
> also keep in mind that im dumb, and don't know about how altered DNA or complex medical stuff works so i just kinda?? did my research and made it up, lol. 
> 
> i dont think theres any trigger warnings for this chapter? mention of starvation, i guess. tell me if i need to say anything!

**Inbox (** _ 3,098 unread _ **)**

 

**drhelencho@starkmail.sec** _> >>_ **anthonyestark@starkmail.sec**

**Subject:** Follow up on Spider-kid Stark (Appointment Jan/27/2019)

 

           Hello Mr. Stark,

 

           This is a follow up email regarding Spider-kid Stark (very funny). We just finished getting lab results on the blood test, and I wanted to notify you before your next check up, scheduled on the 30th of January. 

 

           We enacted all the standard procedures, but some unusual results came back. It seems that mini-you has some artificially altered DNA, somewhat like that of Mr. Rogers and Mr. Barnes. I suggest speaking to Spider-kid about this.

 

           When we tested the DNA to see if it was another form of the super soldier serum like that of the Hulk or Barnes, we found that the results were not entirely human. The name Spider-kid is indeed very appropriate. 

 

           Here are the statistics (listed from greatest concentration to least concentration), I suspect you might find them interesting. Contact me or Miss May Parker (at mayparker@starkmail.sec) if you have any further questions.

 

           63.893% Homo sapiens

           12.128% Hyllus giganteus 

           9.863% Hogna lenta

           5.98% Cebrennus rechenbergi 

           3.71%  Hadronyche modesta

           2.28% Heteropoda maxima

           1.561% Mutated Homo sapiens DNA, equivalent to that of Mr. Barnes

           0.585% Undetermined 

 

           These statistics are not new to his body, either. It seems that this altered DNA was introduced during infancy. We estimate at about a year of age. 

 

           Moving on, the blood test also revealed that Spider-kid has a vitamin D deficiency (less than 20 nanograms), and while his enhanced DNA might prevent him from any major concerns such as osteoporosis, osteomalacia, and psoriasis, this is something we want to reverse. We suspect that this deficiency is due to extreme lack of sunlight. 

 

           He may need to take vitamins (calcifediol and calcitriol) as well as change some aspects of his diet to include more (fortified) dairy products, fish (salmon, tuna, mackerel recommended), and egg yolk, though increased exposure to sunlight will help dramatically.

 

           Spinach, kale, and fish (sardines, salmon, perch, rainbow trout recommended) are just a few foods rich in calcium that I think he should start eating more frequently to erase any possibility of the conditions mentioned earlier and to also boost the calcium levels in his blood. 

 

           Vitamins are easily obtained at your local supermarket. 

 

           Ask Spider-kid if he experiences fatigue, impaired healing, or if he is easily infected or sick often. These are the symptoms of a vitamin D deficiency. 

 

           He should be eating 3 major meals and frequent in-between snacks each day.

 

           Next, the saliva test also seemed to yield interesting data. While saliva is usually 98% water, it seems an amount of Hadronyche modesta venom is produced by the salivary glands. We have yet to test if the amount secreted is harmful to humans. I do not expect it to be. Go immediately to a doctor if his saliva makes direct contact with your skin, mouth, bloodstream, or eyes, as of now. I will email you an update when we get results. 

 

           Thank you for being so cooperative. We will see you and Spider-kid on the 30th. 

 

           Best wishes,

 

           Dr. Helen Cho (Stark Industries Emergency and Private Medical). 

 

* * *

 

 

**Inbox (** _ 18 unread _ **)**

 

**anthonyestark@starkmail.sec** _ >>> _ **drhelencho@starkmail.sec**

**Subject:** Re: Follow up on Spider-kid Stark (Appointment Jan/27/2019) 

 

           Helen,

 

           Thank you for your thorough research on the kid. I’ll take all of this data into mind while taking care of him.

 

           I thought you might like to know that he’s been sleeping more frequently, though not without me in the room. He’s a bit difficult, but it’s not his fault. 

 

           He’s also taken quite a liking to the foods you listed, milk in particular. Even though he said he was introduced to solid food around 5 years ago, he still seems to prefer liquids. I think this might have to do with the saliva situation (I have not been bitten by him, and I don’t plan to be), but you can draw your own conclusions. You’re a smart woman.

 

           He still isn’t eating as much as recommended, unfortunately. He’ll only eat dinner and a small snack at breakfast. :(

 

           Keep me up to date on any and all developments regarding the kiddo (and I’m very funny, what’re you talking about). 

 

           Sent from my mobile phone,

 

           Tony Stark (Stark Industries, Avengers Initiative, Iron Man). 

 

* * *

**Inbox (** _ 4,021 unread _ **)**

 

**drhelencho@starkmail.sec** _ >>> _ **anthonyestark@starkmail.sec**

**Subject:** Re: Re: Follow up on Spider-kid Stark (Appointment Jan/27/2019) 

 

           I will. Keep him eating! 

 

           Best wishes,

 

           Dr. Helen Cho (Stark Industries Emergency and Private Medical). 

 

* * *

 

**Messages** **(** _18 unread_ **)**

 

**Pepsi Cola** _ >>> _ **Tony Stank**

 

           P: Tony.

 

           P: Tony.

 

           P: TONY.

 

           P: Tony, I swear to god. 

 

           P: If this is another pet project I’ll come over there to strangle you.

 

           P: Why is Rhodey saying that you’re calling in War Machine.

 

           P: Why do you have A KID?

 

           P: Who’s Peter?

 

           P: TONY.

 

           P: Jesus Christ I leave for a few months and you’re off to do whatever you do with Iron Man again.

 

           P: What happened to staying out of it?

 

           P: Do you know how messy PR is, Tony?

 

           P: Tony, I love you, but you can’t just…

 

           P: ARGH, TONY! 

 

           T: I know, but you gotta trust me.

 

           P: I'M TRYING TO CLEAN UP YOUR MESSES, TONY. 

 

           P: I have YOUR company to run!

 

           T: It’s important.

 

           P: No shit! I’m not talking with you about this over text.

 

           T: You’re gonna have to. I have a kid to take care of.

 

           P: I’m calling you.

 

**_P_ ** _ has started a voice call. _

 

_            Voice call denied.  _ **_(_ ** _ 00:00:00 _ **_)_ **

 

           P: TONY! 

 

           T: Pep.

 

           P: Tony. 

 

           P: I’m catching a flight to New York. You better explain your ass the minute I walk into that Tower. 

           

           T: Pep… 

 

* * *

**Messages (** _ 21 unread _ **)**

 

**Country Rhodes** _> >>_ **Tony Stank**

 

           C: I’ll be there in a day or 2

 

           T: Thank you, Rhodey-bear.

 

* * *

**Inbox** **(** _2 unread_ **)**

 

**anthoneyestark@starkmail.sec** _> >>_ **mayparker@starkmail.sec**

**Subject:** NDA 

 

           Ms. Parker,

 

           I would like to request that you sign a non-disclosure agreement I’m having my head of security, Happy, deliver to you ASAP. I would also appreciate it if you deleted this email immediately after replying to it so that I know that you’ve read it. These emails are secure, but I don’t want this information getting out. 

 

           Attached:  _ drhelencho@starkmail.secSubject:.. _

 

           Please read over Helen’s email regarding the kid’s health. 

 

           I’m doing all this because SHIELD is getting involved with him. You’ve already figured out that the kid isn’t exactly normal, and you’d be correct. Since you’re technically a civilian and are not registered on any SHIELD database, I just want to take precautions. I take these things very seriously, Ms. Parker. If you give away private information I will have you sued for defamation quicker than you can blink. 

 

           To world as of now, this kid is a fairytale. Just like the Winter Soldier. I’d like to keep it that way. 

 

           Sent from my mobile phone, 

 

           Tony Stark (Stark Industries, Avengers Initiative, Iron Man) 

 

* * *

**Inbox** **(** _5,002 unread_ **)**

 

**mayparker@starkmail.sec** _> >>_ **anthonyestark@starkmail.sec**

**Subject:** Re: NDA

 

           Hello Mr. Stark,

 

           I will sign the NDA. I used to have a nephew that I would do anything for, I understand your concerns completely. 

 

           Sincerely,

 

           May Parker (Stark Industries Medical)

 

* * *

**Inbox** **(** _5 unread_ **)**

 

**anthonyestark@starkmail.sec** _> >>_ **mayparker@starkmail.sec**

**Subject:** Re: Re: NDA

 

           Add a “Private” in front of that Medical, now that you’ve signed. :) 

 

           Here’s my phone:  _ Shared Contact (To… _

 

           Text me. 

 

           Sent from my mobile phone,

 

           Tony Stark (Stark Industries, Avengers Initiative, Iron Man) 

 

* * *

**Inbox** **(** _4,999 unread_ **)**

 

**mayparker@starkmail.sec** _> >>_ **anythonyestark@starkmail.sec**

**Subject:** Re: Re: Re: NDA

 

           Will do, Mr. Stark! 

 

           Sincerely,

 

           May Parker (Stark Industries Private And Public Medical) 

           

* * *

**Messages** **(** _38 unread_ **)**

 

**Unknown Number** _> >>_ **Tony Stank**

 

           ?: This is May Parker. Tony Stank, really?

 

_            Added contact as  _ **_April Showers Bring May Flowers_ **

 

           T: Blame Rhodes, he thinks he’s funny. 

 

           A: It is pretty funny. ;) 

 

           T: Betrayal. 

 

* * *

**Messages** **(** _40 unread_ **)**

 

**Nat** _> >>_ **Tony Stank**

 

           N: Hi, Tony. 

 

           That one threw Tony off. Natasha always talked to him, she never texted him if she needed something. She would find him and make him listen, it was just what she did. In fact, scrolling up, the last message he received from her was a grocery list from back in November. 

 

           T: What can I do for you? 

 

           Nat took a while typing. Tony knew how particular she was with language, so this usually happened when she actually texted him. He guessed he was so used to near-instant replies from Rhodey and the long silences from Pepper that the 3 dot indicator was foreign to him.

 

           N: I was wondering if you could introduce me to Peter. He seems to really like my music, and I don’t want to be a stranger.

 

           Tony blinked.

 

           T: How do you know he listens to your music?

 

           N: FRIDAY. 

 

           Oh. “FRI?” he said, feeling like he was scolding a child. “What happened to telling me about harmless requests?” 

_            “Ms. Romanoff’s request did not directly impact Peter or anything around Peter, so I deemed it appropriate. She just wished to know when Peter asked specifically for her music,”  _ FRIDAY replied. She sounded like a child that had gotten caught. 

           Tony leaned back in his chair, humming at the AI. 

 

           T: You know, she’s learning way too much sass for her own good. 

 

           N: So?

 

           Ah. Alright, time to deal with the situation. 

 

           T: Peter freaks the fuck out when I’m not in the room with him for even a couple minutes. Doesn’t really understand that me stepping out for a few doesn’t mean I’m leaving for good. Do you mind if I’m in there with you, for that reason? I know you’re capable, but Peter’s vulnerable and gets spooked, which can make him aggressive. 

 

           T: Couldn’t breathe last time I left. 

 

           The dots appeared again, and once more Tony was subjected to waiting. 

 

           N: Tony, that sounds a lot like separation anxiety. Young babies have it with their mom or dad before they’re able to learn that their parents aren’t gone when they go into a different room, though they usually grow out of it and it doesn’t seem nearly as severe as you’ve described (“not breathing”). You might want to talk to Helen about that. And yes, that’s fine. 

 

           T: He’s sleeping right now, I’ll ask him when he wakes up. I practically live here now. :) 

 

           N: Do you want me to bring you coffee?  

 

           Tony laughed quietly at that, before shooting off an immediate “yes, I’m dying.” 

 

           N: Tell me what he says. I’m happy if he says yes or no, let him know that it’s always his choice. 

 

           She typed for a little bit before adding onto her last message. 

 

           N: I never really got a choice. I want him to take his time. 

 

           T: Me too, Nat. Me too.

 

           He looked over at Peter’s sleeping figure. Still in the corner, though he had accepted the pillow that Tony usually slept on. He thought it had something to do with smells. 

 

           N: You’re doing him good. I don’t know how good, but good, Tony. Taking him to doctors, being there, naming him.

 

           N: Staying.

 

           T: It’s the least I can do. He’s just a kid.

 

           N: No, the least you could do is ignore him and let him slowly die.

 

           It felt harsh, but she was right. Like she always was.

 

           N: He’s just a kid. Don’t let him die, Tony.

 

           It felt final when he hit send.

 

           T: I’d only ever let him back there over my dead body. 

✪

           It was an unfamiliar sight when Bucky’s new smartphone lit up. He stared at the screen for a little before actually processing the notification. 

 

**Messages (** _ 1 unread _ **)**

_New message from_ **Mister Tony Stark:** _Hey B…_

 

           He swiped and pressed his thumb to the small circle at the bottom of the device. The whole thing was still weird to him, how quickly technology had advanced. 

 

**Mister Tony Stark** _> >>_ **Bucky Barnes**

 

           M: Hey Barnes. 

 

           B: Hey Tony. 

 

           The keyboard also felt weird. Everything was weird. 

 

           M: Attachment:  _ hesleepsnow.jpg  _

 

           M: Your music calms him down. Thank you.

 

           Bucky smiled. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so in this chapter i aLmOSt had Tony make a group chat with May, Nat, and Bucky but as much as i love group chat fics, i didnt want this chapter or story to go down that route. i can make a lil oneshot of that if yall r interested, i still have that saved :D
> 
> also!!! Bucky POV!!!! this isnt the last of that yall, i promise. ;) 
> 
> i love ur guys' feedback, it really encourages me to keep writing. and u silent readers r great too <3 
> 
> just wanted to say that yall r free to DM me on tumblr and like,,, talk to me about literally anything lol. im bad at starting conversations, if u wanna say hi then say hi pls ^w^ 
> 
> pls have a nice day/night and see yall next thursday!!!! :D


	19. Mission: Classified

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thursday is here and with it a new chapter!!!! hi!!!! 
> 
> the more characters i add the more insecure i get about them being ooc or unrealistic. pls lemme know if anything bugs u in the slightest, and ill do my best to improve!! again, this is my first time writing something this long so maybe ill get better over time ^w^
> 
> TWs for mentions of torture and child abuse. stay safe everyone!!!
> 
> pls enjoy!

           Tony thought that talking to Peter was like walking on thin ice. With the right tone, words, and touch Peter was open and gave him hesitant little smiles, expressive and alive. A kid. But the wrong tone of voice, the wrong words together, a touch that was too sudden or harsh, wiped the progress clean, like it was nonexistent. He would go straight and still and his gaze would go stony. 

           He was like a puzzle. Sometimes he would tell Tony about the things he learned, the things that they made him do, things which he learned to enjoy. Other times he wouldn’t speak a word about his past or himself.

           He was learning, though. Freedom of speech was new to him, and he was working out how to apply that to interactions. 

           He still had yet to refuse a touch Tony gave, though. When Tony wanted to guide nails away from skin or hold his hand, Peter let him even when it looked like he didn’t want it. 

           Freedom of body was a thing he wasn’t willing to accept yet, and even though it frustrated Tony to see, he was willing to wait. He had been beaten and bred into obedience, that wouldn’t go away in a month. 

           And it had been only a month, he told himself. This was progress. 

           Tony’s greatest accomplishment, he thought, was getting the kid to talk to him when he wanted. Even though Tony didn’t leave the room, there would be long periods of silence. 

           Today, Tony had brought in an AI-in-progress. It was for the kid. He typed away on a holographic keyboard, pulling up all the parenting books he deemed acceptable after reading them thoroughly and then highlighting sections. He wanted this AI to be sensitive and real, he wanted her to be perfect. 

           He’d been stuck on a line of code for a while, unable to figure out how the AI would detect different moods. It was all based on chemicals, and that was something Tony didn’t enjoy all that much, but he was trying his best. 

           Tony had gotten so used to Peter’s quiet vigilance, utterly silent yet so observant, that when he told Tony what those observations were, Tony couldn’t help but smile. 

           “That line is wrong,” Peter stated like it was the simplest thing in the world. 

           “Which line?” 

           Peter lifted his hands from where they were inside the pillow case— he really loved that pillow— flicked his index finger up, and Tony swiped up. 

           “Line 19,” he explained. “Dopamine doesn’t have 8 chlorine in it, it has 8 carbon.” 

           Tony blinked, and then grinned at the kid. “Thanks, Spiderling.” 

           Peter went back to hugging his pillow, watching Tony work. Even if Peter wasn’t accustomed to being expressive with emotions, Tony could see the small shine of fascination in his eyes. The kid loved watching him work, and while he wasn’t quite ready to show Tony how he made those webshooters, it warmed his metal heart. 

           He highlighted and deleted the lines he’d made on chlorine, laying the skeleton for new lines based on carbon. 

           “They never let me to this,” Peter started softly, hesitantly. Today would be a talking day, then. “The only thing they let me build were necessities. Sometimes I wish they let me do other things.”

           “Yeah?” Tony asked, letting him know that he was listening. 

           “Yeah,” he sounded doubtful. “But my administrator always knows what’s best for me, so it was probably better that way.” 

           Tony paused, finger in the air. He swiped to the side, shutting down the hologram and letting the projector flicker off. “Peter,” he said. 

           Peter looked at him, attention complete. It was then that Tony realized he had only really made eye contact with the kid a few times.

           It took a lot to give Tony chills, but there was a first time for everything. The poor kid looked like he was going to get hit for looking at him in the eyes. 

           “Pete,” he tried again. “Let’s talk about your administrator.” 

           “Classified,” he responded almost robotically. 

           He huffed, sitting down in front of Peter. “C’mon, kid.” 

           “I can’t,” he said, all inflection in his tone gone. Wiped clean. 

           “I’m sorry,” Tony apologized. He probably spooked the kid. “I just wanted to know a little bit about you,” he explained. 

           “I can’t,” Peter echoed, the same structured, artificial emotion in his voice. It was scary, how quickly Peter could switch like that. Like turning on a light. 

           Or turning it off. 

           “I see that now,” Tony smiled at him gently. “I won’t make you talk about anything you’re not comfortable with.” 

           “I  _ can’t _ ,” Peter stressed the last word, and the meaning behind it hit Tony. 

           “You  _ can’t?”  _

           “They’ll buzz me,” his voice cracked a little, not like a shatter but the kind where the glass strained a little too much and it couldn’t be helped. 

           “They’ll what now?” Tony asked, confused but beginning to draw lines between imaginary dots. 

           Peter wrapped his arms around his middle, face blank. He made a small  _ zzt zzt  _ sound, and tapped his sides. 

           “They shock you?” Tony couldn’t help but raise his voice. 

           Peter pursed his lips and nodded weakly. 

           “They can’t get you here, bud. I promise,” Tony tried, but Peter shook his head. 

           Peter reached an arm over and tapped—

_            Fuck.  _

_            Fuck, fuck. Shit.  _

           Tony’s hands clenched, and he inhaled loudly. Peter flinched. 

           “Alright, okay, kiddo. I understand now, I’m sorry for pushing you,” Tony amended, though his head was elsewhere. 

_            Fucking hell, Jesus Christ.  _

           “Not your fault,” Peter mumbled, clutching his pillow tight and burying his nose in it. 

           Tony needed to distract him, he knew what hidden panic looked like. 

           “You know, Spiderling, Natasha talked to me.” 

           That got his attention. “Miss Romanoff?” 

           “Yeah, she’s got lots of names,” Tony snarked. “Crazy.” 

           “34 recognized identities, not counting Natasha Romanoff, Natalie Romanoff, and Black Widow,” the kid recited, like it had been programmed into him.

           Tony winced at his line of thinking.  _ Glitches.  _

           “That’s impressive, Pete,” he complemented. “I didn’t know she got caught 34 times.” 

           “Most are old reports and singular instances,” Peter continued. “Russia, Romania, Ukraine, Moldova, Pakistan, Hungary, Turkey, Serbia, France, Germany—“ 

           Tony was thoroughly gobsmacked when he cleared his throat, interrupting the kid’s list. “Alright, kiddo. I get it, you have photographic memory.” 

           Peter nodded enthusiastically.

           “She asked if she could meet you,” Tony continued. “Told me to tell you that she wouldn’t mind if you said no.” 

           Peter was quiet for a while, and Tony let him process the information. Nat’s handling of the interrogation when he first arrived had probably soured Peter’s first impression of her, but he could see conflict. How someone could have such expressive eyes yet such an unresponsive face still confused him. 

           “Do you want her to meet me?” was Peter’s expected answer. 

           “Do  _ you _ ?” Tony needed to get it in this kid’s head that he could do whatever he wanted. It was difficult, sometimes, talking gently to him and helping him through basic interactions. Little questions like these got dragged out, until someone gave in. And Peter used to get beat if he gave up. 

           Tony wasn’t used to explaining something as simple as  _ you can do what you want _ . Steve would probably be better for someone like Peter, but  _ fuck  _ Tony had gotten attached to the Spider-kid and he wasn’t letting Steve anywhere near him. 

           Tony had his arc reactor again because of him. 

           Peter bit his lip. “If you do.” 

           “Well,” Tony crumbled, “I think she really wants to see you, and I think that interacting with someone other than me will be good for you.” He wasn't exactly saying yes, he was still giving Peter an out if he so wanted, but he knew how much his opinion meant to the kid. It was like an order, and it unnerved him, but maybe he could use it for good.

           Peter thought for a few seconds, then asked in a shy voice, “Will you be here?” 

           “Yes.” 

           “Okay,” he breathed. “I can see Miss Romanoff.” 

           Tony smiled at Peter, and ruffled his hair. His movements were slow, making sure the back or palm of his hand wasn’t exposed when he lifted it, holding it a little like he was letting a nervous puppy sniff at it. 

           He had learned his lesson when he went to do the same thing the wrong way and Peter thought that he was going to get slapped. 

           It took a few hours for him to talk after that. 

           But this time Peter just bowed his head and leaned into the touch. His nose scrunched, like it always did when he was discovering something new. 

           “Thank you, kid. I’ll let her know right now, do you want me to tell you what she says back?” 

           “Sure,” Peter said, tone slightly lighter. Like he was warming up to the idea.

 

_New message to:_ **Nat**

 

           T: The kid said yes. 

 

           Peter smiled when Tony turned his phone to show him a picture Nat sent of her hand doing a thumbs up in front of what looked like a recipe sheet for chocolate chip cookies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank yall so much for reading!! sorry for the short chapter, but it was necessary plot-wise. 1400 isnt that bad, is it?? ;w;
> 
> and thanks to yall who checked out kaili's zine, it makes me super happy i can use this story to help people <3 ur comments and kudos mean everything to me, im very grateful for yall. 
> 
> see u guys next thursday, pls enjoy the rest of ur week!!!! i love yall <3


	20. Mission: Puppies, Sunshine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yall, i love this chapter a lot. idk what it is, i just??? its very pure
> 
> also thanks to the people on the irondad discord that beta'd a scene for me, yall r amazing
> 
> pls enjoy it!! <3

           See, the thing wasn’t that he didn’t want to. Mr. Stark thought it was a good idea, so he did too. He let the man into his heart and he had yet to take it, so Peter would lay his life in his hands. 

           His hands felt fragile against his chest, and he felt tight and loose at the same time. Someone was taking a cleaver to his side, taking his rib to smooth whatever kinks he had in his architecture. 

           He wanted to see Miss Romanoff. Her music was kind and calming, and Mr. Stark seemed to think quite high of her. Perhaps not yet trust, but respect. That was all both of them could give. 

           So he warmed his porcelain hands and watched the door. Sometimes he asked Mr. Stark what time it was. 

           It was easy to freeze in your mind, Peter thought. Significantly easier, now that nails to skin wasn’t an option and puking in the shower caused more problems than it fixed.

           All of his coping mechanisms were falling apart at the seams, and it stressed him out. His stomach was too full of food that wasn’t supposed to be there as long as it was. His throat was too full of words he was too scared to speak. 

           He trusted Mr. Stark. He did.

_            Let’s talk about your administrator. _

           His words were kind and gentle, Mr. Stark recognized when he went to glitch. He coaxed him out of temporarily deactivating with a soft smile and sweet syllables, and Peter craved it. He was safe here, in this room with Mr. Stark. Iron Man.

           He thought that he’d never live to see the day he put the name of an Avenger next to the word  _ safety. _

           He supposed he really didn’t know what the word meant, though. He was trying, but pages of his dictionary were falling out, and he had no time for book binding. The letters of the title were fading, scrambling and rearranging. 

           In the facility, safety had been his quarters. Alone. Safety had been his burlap blanket and a warm shower that lasted a few minutes too short. Safety had been the praise after a mission accomplished. He had never realized how the word  _ safe  _ make his skin itch and his tongue swell, back then. 

           Mr. Stark said he was a person, so he must be. If Mr. Stark believed it, then it was obviously true. 

           Safety here was heated blankets during long nights, promises kept and locked tight, too frail to risk taking them out and handling them. Safety was warm hands and warmer words, without the capital W. 

           Both were correct, but the latter felt more right. Neither were wrong, but Mr. Stark’s safety was softer. 

           Stay was another peculiar word, he decided. Another quirk of language that no one but him really seemed to understand.

           His stay was forever, promise me you won’t leave. Ever. 

           Their stay was more like now, now and in a little bit. A few minutes, an hour. Enough to listen to a conversation and a song and then they would get up and leave.

           Stay was funny, but not the kind of funny where it made your chest light and your heart bubbly. It was the morbid kind of funny, blue and rainy and something that you just couldn’t change. 

           Rain also sounded a lot like keys, the pounding kind. That beat on his window, unrelenting but calm. Inevitable. 

           His fingers were icicles when he rubbed them together. He pulled his blanket onto his shoulders more and gripped the pillow tight. The pillow that smelled like motor oil and metal and cologne. 

           If safety had a smell, that would be it. A little unusual, not expected, but he supposed that was appropriate for such a word. Strange and subjective and silly, but important. Definitely significant. 

           Today he read to himself. A book he didn’t quite remember the name of, but he grew fond of a few of the characters. He could relate to very little figures in the books Mr. Stark owned, but the language was engaging and helped him with pronunciation. 

           So he plugged his nose so that he couldn’t smell the ink and the paper and he read the numbers in the corners religiously. He tinkered with a circuit board, he had taken it apart so many dozens of times that it was dizzying him, put it back together and mismatched it and shuffled its parts. 

           When it all smelled the same, he would doze off against the pillow and talk with Mr. Stark, who was busy but who bothered to answer every question and comment on every observation. 

           Peter thought that he could get used to these kind of days, but his fingers were still cold with dread. Miss Romanoff would be arriving at 4:00. He kept seeing her green eyes, green eyes like Dr. Schneider’s, green like trees and rich emeralds. Red hair like rubies. Blood.

           Peter wondered if Mr. Stark really did trust her after all she did in the Civil War, the media liked to focus on her lack of loyalty a lot. At least a paragraph in every article was dedicated to it.

           Whenever he brought it up with Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark would shrug and divert the subject, dialogue dusted off like the quotations weren’t around the most important words. Words like safety and stay and maybe love. 

           Words were fickle, Peter was beginning to relearn. In the facility, words meant the same thing, every single time.  _ Go  _ meant  _ annoyance, boy  _ meant  _ anger. Friend  _ was a threat that was also a promise. His version of  _ friend  _ wasn’t in any dictionaries, because it would be swiftly deleted the minute it was written. People liked to pretend that fear didn't exist, so they got rid of anything that made them scared. He would know, he grew up being the canary's cat. A monster.

           He didn’t not want to see Miss Romanoff, but he had his doubts and precautions. He wouldn't be cuffed, Mr. Stark would be here.

           He was staying.

           That was all he could really ask for, a stone to hold onto and a river to wash off the dirt. 

           The reverb was catching up to him, and suddenly the pitch was too high and low at once and the echoes were the same sentence over and over again. 

           He was getting fuzzy, but it wasn’t the peppermint and belladonna kind of fuzzy that made his hands shake and his body glitch, it was the kind of fuzzy that made him want to smile and reach out a hand without permission.

           Without permission.

           He turned the page. He read the number. He wasn’t really registering the words on the paper, they all sounded the exact same in his head and the commas were more like dark blotches. Bleeding. 

           Why was the cartography of a book so ill suited to him? he wondered. Why did the mountains of paragraphs blend together until the yellowed pages turned black? 

           He didn’t bother to read page 281, his fingers felt nothing in the ink. It was too stiff. 

           “Why are you letting her see me?” he finally asked Mr. Stark. His voice felt loud against the softness of Billie Holiday. One of Mr. Barnes’ songs.

           “Hm?” Mr. Stark asked, looking up from his tablet. His fingers paused on the screen. 

           “Why are you letting her see me?” Peter asked again. 

           “Nat?” 

           He nodded distantly, flipping another page. 

           “Well, I think she feels a little bad for you,” Mr. Stark admitted. “She’s good at pretending to be a robot, but there’s gotta be some emotion in there. I’d like to think I’m good at seeing it.” 

           Peter stared at Mr. Stark, eyes wide. “Feel bad for me? Why?” 

           That was strange. Nothing about his situation really constituted pity. 

           Goosebumps flourished on his skin at the memory of sad, resigned, dark eyes.  _My name is Miles._

           His upbringing had been completely fair, it was just a little different from what the Avengers were used to. Perhaps something like different cultures. It wasn’t unjust or wrong, he’d deserved everything he got. 

           “Because, kiddo, you kind of act like a kicked puppy.” Mr. Stark’s nose scrunched up at the thought, like he immediately regretted saying that. 

           “I don’t,” Peter replied. It wasn’t a flippant or sassy kind of observation, it wasn’t a whine, it was a simple statement. Peter didn’t act like a kicked puppy because he hadn’t been kicked. Maybe pushed, but not kicked. 

           “That’s the best analogy I have.” Mr. Stark didn’t budge an inch. 

           “I haven’t been kicked,” Peter explained. “I’m not a kicked puppy.” 

           Mr. Stark sighed, putting the tablet down. “I didn’t mean it literally.”

           “It was a bad analogy,” Peter concluded, not necessarily ignoring Mr. Stark but simply deeming his input unhelpful. “I haven’t been kicked, so I can’t act like a kicked puppy.” 

           “You kind of do, is the thing.” Mr. Stark quickly backtracked. “Not like it’s a bad thing, necessarily, you can’t help it. But you have been,” Mr. Stark paused for a second, “metaphorically,” he stressed, “kicked.” 

           “How so?” Peter rested the book on his lap, strange letters forgotten. 

           “Well, that’s the issue, kid. We don’t know who kicked you or how you got kicked, but we just know that you have been, by someone.” He used air quotes around the last word, emphasizing it.

           Peter tilted his head, looking a lot like a confused dog. He didn’t know how to express emotion any other way, so all of his gestures looked a bit unnatural. “I don’t think I’ve been kicked.”

           Mr. Stark put his chin in his hand. “Explain, please.”

           It didn’t sound like an order, but it was worded like it. Peter took it.

           “The analogy  _ kicked puppy  _ implies that the puppy did nothing to deserve being kicked, and that the person who kicked the puppy was being actively malicious towards it.” Describing his abstract thoughts to someone else was cathartic, but also difficult, he thought. His thoughts came more in the form of textures, colors, or shapes. Never full sentences, he had been trained against people like Wanda. 

           He held up his fingers like L’s facing each other. “The expression itself is based around an animal being skittish because someone or something was feeling violent and unfairly acted out on it.” 

           Mr. Stark responded immediately, “So you think that you being, again,  _ metaphorically _ kicked was fair?” 

           Peter nodded, a smile blooming on his lips. Mr. Stark finally understood!

           “Oh, kiddo…” Mr. Stark’s face changed, and so did Peter’s. His smile wavered, and his eyebrows bunched together. Why did Mr. Stark’s face look so sad? 

           Peter voiced his concerns, turning half his body to Mr. Stark. He’d done that, he’d made Mr. Stark sad.

           “I, just…” Mr. Stark was struggling. “Tell me... what they told you, sunshine.”

           That was a new nickname. Sunshine. The syllables went together nicely, and the word itself was pleasant, even though Mr. Stark’s voice was raspy as he said it. 

           “Sunshine. What’s sunshine?” Peter discarded Mr. Stark’s earlier words, if he really wanted to know he would push. 

           Mr. Stark laughed. He sounded tired, was he doing that? “Sunshine, you don’t know what sunshine is?” 

           Peter shook his head, and then added on after a little bit of thinking. “I know what sun _ light _ is. Is it like that?”

           “They’re a bit different,” Mr. Stark started helpfully. “Sunlight is the... the,” he made a hand gesture, hanging his wrist and opening a fist over and over again. 

           Oh, Peter got it. He nodded. 

           “Yeah, that stuff. The rays! That’s the word.” Mr. Stark snapped his fingers. 

           “So what’s the difference?” 

           “The difference is sunshine isn’t just a ray, it’s not really concentrated anywhere. Sunshine is more like a… blanket? A blanket.” 

           Peter frowned at him. 

           “It’s everywhere,” Mr. Stark explained. “It’s not just in a single location, it’s spread out. Sunshine is more of the feeling and less of the light.” 

           Peter picked at the new scabs on his wrist, and Mr. Stark pointed a finger at him. He moved his nails away from his arm. 

           “So you’re calling me warm?” Peter asked. 

           Mr. Stark laughed again, except it wasn’t as tired this time. “Yeah, kinda. You’re bright and warm.” 

           “Is that good thing?” Peter inquired hopefully. 

           “It’s a great thing.” 

           Before Peter could reply, there was a loud knock at the door.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Natasha chapter will be next, i promise!!! :')
> 
> also like, i just need to get this out there
> 
> minecraft is wild, guys. like the last time i played was 2014? 2014 when i was 8 yrs old?? and now theyve changed all the textures and they got birds and foxes. there are so many cats??? wack.
> 
> and yall r so supportive i?? cant even. thank u guys so much, i wouldnt trade yall for the world. <3 <3 <3 i love u guys so much. eternally grateful ;w;
> 
> see u guys thursday!!!! stay hydrated, eat well, get sleep. pet a fluffy animal. have a nice day/night!!!


	21. Mission: Miss Romanoff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, serious time.
> 
> if you're reading this, don't skim. it's important.
> 
> the reason why i enabled anons on my main is because some people are very sweet and want to talk to me without contacting my ask blog specifically for tis fic, and would rather talk to me on my main. i absolutely adore you people, my day gets infinitely better with every comment, but i've gotten ask after ask from people reading this story asking why i'm so anti-starker on my main tumblr blog and why i've never mentioned it on my AO3, or saying horseshit like "came for your fic, left because you're anti-starker."
> 
> i'm going tackle this right now and be explicitly clear. if you read Tony and Peter's completely platonic relationship as romantic in a story about abuse, stockholm syndrome, and dehumanization, i don't want you anywhere near me. i don't want to see your username, read your comment, or hear about you in passing. go read another story that suits your needs, but don't read mine.
> 
> and if you ignore all of my earlier statements in the paragraph above and try to argue with me about how "starker isn't that bad, and you're being a little harsh," then i will shut you down immediately. i'll moderate comments if i have to. i have no tolerance for that bullshit, and i want to protect all the fellow minors on this website from being roped into what i was. 
> 
> that thing that starkers say doesn't happen "because they're fictional characters, and it's all harmless fun" happened to me, and i want no interaction with anyone like the person i met 3 or 4 years ago online.
> 
> please respect my wishes as a human being, not as an anti-starker, and leave me the fuck alone about the topic. i would really love to go one week without a panic attack. 
> 
> TW for a panic attack and mention of torture

           Peter visibly flinched when his senses spiked violently. He’d gotten so used to the comfortable safety Mr. Stark provided him that he forgot what it felt like to have ice dumped down his spine. It was not dissimilar to warnings. 

           Mr. Stark got up and opened to door, and a new wave of smells smacked Peter right in the face. 

           Warm… was that bread? It smelled sweeter than bread, perhaps honey? No, honey wasn’t right. It smelled thick and hot, a little salty. 

           He found safety under the desk, drawing his knees under his chin and holding his thighs in a vice grip. The new smells were a little overwhelming. 

           “Kiddo, she brought cookies,” Mr. Stark turned, and when he realized Peter had moved he first looked up and then under. 

           He smiled sadly. “Nat brought cookies,” he repeated. 

           He recognized Miss Romanoff’s voice when she spoke, the slight Russian lilt and the authoritative tone, a mix of American and British. She was used to fake voices like he was. But it was a little different this time, it was less authority and more gentle-ish. It still sounded awkward and unpracticed, but not artificially forced. Genuine. 

           Peter shrank back, it scared him. All the foreign things, that is. They sent pinpricks down his spine and goosebumps up his arms and had his senses going haywire. He wanted to tear off his ears. 

           “Let him come out on his own time,” she said patiently. Peter could see her grey socks turn towards Mr. Stark. There was a clatter. “I’m just going to talk to him for a little, the kids usually enjoyed it.”

           He heard Mr. Stark take a sharp breath. “Alright, okay.”

           Miss Romanoff started talking. 

           “Tony already told you that I brought cookies, so I may as well tell you what kind they are. I made chocolate chips. I looked up a recipe on Pinterest, but I don’t think they’re too bad. Do you know what chocolate chip cookies are?”

           Silence.

           “No?” she guessed correctly. “That’s alright, I can tell you just fine. So, the recipe I used called for a teaspoon of baking soda and salt, a stick of butter, 3 quarters of a cup of sugar and brown sugar, a teaspoon of vanilla, and 2 eggs. I just estimated the amount of chocolate chips, since my tablet died by then. There’s nothing dangerous in there, unless you’re gluten-free, I swear on my life.” 

           Peter chewed on the inside of his cheek, the metallic taste of blood rising behind his teeth. 

           “I know new foods can be kind of intimidating at first, and I don’t really know how much experience you’ve had, but it’s alright to be kind of picky. Tony told me that you like milk. They gave me a lot of milk when I was younger, you know? It makes your bones strong.”

           Peter didn’t, and his back stiffened. 

           “Now you’ve got people in your corner, and you can eat whatever you want. I can’t cook that well, but I figured that I could do something to make up for how scary I must’ve been when we first met,  _ ребенок паук _ .” 

_           Ребенок паук.  _

           Peter put his head in between his knees and tore at his hair. _П_ _ аук, паук, паук.  _

           He gasped, clawing at his throat. He put his fingers in his mouth and bit down, hard. It was just a Word, a Word that wasn’t even on his list.

           Miss Romanoff continued speaking, called him  _ ребенок паук _ in a non threatening, almost fond way, but all he heard was the sound of chains and the sizzle of the rod in the fire, the beeps and the gurgling water down his throat. 

           It was just a Word. It was a Word. It was a Word. It wasn’t in his list, but the capital letter was still there, underlined twice and in bold and highlighted.

           He couldn’t breathe.

_            Blood leaked from the corners of his mouth, eerily similar to the same way tears did from his eyes.  _

           His fingers stuck to the worn shirt that dwarfed his frame, and he choked on the air and warm blue. 

_            “Паук, you have failed to endure your session. You’ve escalated the procedure.” _

_            Even though he could easily break the wires wound around his wrists and fingers, he didn’t dare, didn’t want to. They knew that.  _

           A warning revertibrated along his back and shoulders, he sunk his teeth into his lips to keep forever silent. He pricked his arms. 

           Don’t forget. Don’t forget. Don’t, don’t, don’t. 

           He rocked quietly back and forth, Miss Romanoff’s kind accent warping and grating. He was going to be quiet this time, be quiet for his administrator, be quiet for Mr. Stark. He didn’t want water in his lungs. 

           Mr. Stark was always right. Mr. Stark was always right.

_            Mr. Stark was always right. _

           If he was a person, then he should reach out. Call for help. 

           And even if Mr. Stark was always right, his administrator was more right. 

           That was the thing, Mr. Stark was another temporary authority, but his administrator owned him. Peter  _ belonged  _ to him.

           Don’t forget,  _ please. _

           He had 2 months.

           2 months to be good enough for his administrator, 2 months to prove just how much  _ he loved him.  _

_            Love was another strange word, wasn’t it? _

           He gasped at the second warning, and immediately choked back a sob, biting down onto the side of his palm hard.

           Don’t forget.

           The damage was done, Mr. Stark heard him. “Pete?”

           Pete, Pete, Pete. Petey, Peter, Spider-kid, Spiderling, kiddo. He had so many names these days.

           Mr. Stark kneeled down in front of the desk, and his concerned face melted Peter.

           He reached out, freely hiccuping now that he’d been caught, and instead of being hit for such a childish display, Mr. Stark just pulled him in. 

           Miss Romanoff was silent in the background, though Peter could practically smell the guilt the same way he had been trained to smell fear. 

           Mr. Stark hushed him gently, whispering  _ sunshine  _ over and over again.

           Peter. Pete. Petey, Spider-kid, Spiderling, kiddo. _Sunshine._

           “What happened?” Mr. Stark prodded carefully. “Do you mind sharing?”

           “She’s t-taking me back,” Peter whispered back. “She’s turning me in, s-sir. She knows.”

           He ruined it. 

           All because he was terrified of the same people who bred and raised him. He was no better than the living dummies. 

           Pathetic.

           “Was it the Russian?” Mr. Stark asked, tearing Peter away from his increasingly dark thoughts. 

           Peter nodded, breaking out of Mr. Stark’s embrace. He aggressively wiped at his tears, hoping to get adrenaline pumping by digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

           Mr. Stark held his wrist and guided it thoughtfully down. “I’m sor—”

           “I’m sorry. I ruined it,” Peter interrupted.

           Mr. Stark smiled exhaustedly. “No, no, no. It’s completely fine, sunshine. I should’ve known Nat would bother you, she should’ve known too.”

           “Yes,” Miss Romanoff agreed sincerely. “I knew, and I made a terrible mistake. I’m very sorry, Peter. It won’t happen again and I hope you can forgive me.”

           Peter looked at Mr. Stark, and the man gave him a hesitant thumbs up. 

           He didn’t look at Miss Romanoff’s eyes when he voiced that it was okay, that he was used to it. She gave him a concerned stare after that, but smiled at him. 

           They sat in neutral silence, a bit tense but otherwise accepting, for a long while. Peter considered climbing up the walls and sitting in the corner of the ceiling, but Mr. Stark would be disappointed.

           He turned towards to man and reached out again, making an almost toddler-like grabbing motion. 

           “T-this is nice,” Peter whispered when Mr. Stark wrapped his arms around his body. “This is nice.”

           “It’s a hug,” Mr. Stark whispered back. 

           “Hugs… hugs are nice,” Peter’s voice cracked. He hugged back. 

           If Miss Romanoff snapped a picture on her mobile phone, then he didn’t mind. She winked at him from over the billionaire’s shoulder, and Peter smiled hesitantly at her. 

           He buried his nose into Mr. Stark. “Thank you, sir.” 

           “No problemo, kiddo.” 

           Maybe Miss Romanoff wasn’t so bad. The cookies  _ did _ smell good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not sorry about that super long beginning note, though i do wish that i could have this chapter be a little more cheerful outside of the writing considering that Spidermama don't start off on the best foot. but this won't be the last of Nat, i promise! i love her with my whole heart and i think her relationship with Peter will be a nice contrast to Tony's. 
> 
> translations:
> 
> 1\. ребенок паук (baby spider.)  
> 2\. паук (spider) 
> 
> also thank u to Kaili, who gave me her chocolate chip cookie recipe. i actually made some so i could describe accurately how they smelled (which was like, really weird to explain to my mom when she came home lol) and they were really good!!! thanks spidermom uwu <3 
> 
> pls tell me if u think i wrote Nat well? drop advice or feedback? sorry that its so short, the next will be longer, but ive been having issues that i mentioned in the beginning note ;;;w;
> 
> thank u guys so, so much for your comments and kudos, again, it makes my day so much better every time i get an email. i love y'all 3000 <3 <3 <3 
> 
> pls stay hydrated and get enough sleep!! summers rolling around fast!


	22. Mission: Cookies, Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PRIDE MONTH  
> PRIDE MONTH  
> PRIDE MONTH
> 
> YALL GET YOUR RAINBOWS AND HOLD HANDS WITH WHOEVER U WANT ITS PRIDE MONTH :D
> 
> also like!!! only a week until school gets out and then i'll have so much more time to write and im very excited!!!!!! 
> 
> TW for brief descriptions of torture and suicidal ideation. minor but still there! stay safe!
> 
> pls enjoy the chapter!!!

_            Weapon was young, back then. Young enough to call Dr. Schneider Mommy and not understand what he did wrong when he was backhanded for it.  _

_ They were still learning by example, back then. Look at the Soldiers, look at how compliant they are. Look at how well they’re doing, how valued they are. You can be them. _

_ Weapon’s childhood was filled with aspirations of being the next Winter Soldier. He was amazed by the man’s prowess and accomplishments, every time the Soldier came back with a new mission completed he would listen for the body count, hope and pray he was half as good as he was. _

_ Dr. Schneider noticed this, and thus introduced them to each other. Her most prized cadet and HYDRA’s deadliest assassin. _

_ The Winter Soldier was under control, obviously. Cold and calculating and robotic, but finally Weapon could relate to someone. _

_ Weapon loved him so much, loved how even though the Soldier could be harsh and mean to him sometimes, other times he would be more patient. Listen to his questions, answer when the information wasn’t classified. _

_ The Winter Soldier taught him how to shoot a gun. That was the thing he cherished as a child, the knowledge that not just  _ a  _ Soldier,  _ the  _ Soldier, taught him how to do something. _

_ It was just a singular task, he was never taught personally by the Soldier ever again, usually instructed by his moderator or Dr. Schneider afterwards, but he would push himself to be better, be the best, because he wanted to be taught like that again.  _

_ He didn’t see the Soldier anymore after he called him Dad.  _

_ It was just a mistake, just a glitch that managed to slip past his mainframe, but it was a glitch all the same. And he was punished for his malfunction. _

_ He didn’t even know what Dad meant, he just knew it was the right word for his feelings. Feelings that they made sure he remembered weren’t supposed to be there. _

_ He spent a month in a cell, starving and nearly asleep because he’d always had trouble thermoregulating and he couldn’t cry for fear of his tears freezing to his cheeks. The bars bit into his hands when he reached out to touch them, and the tips of his fingers went white and then red and then blue after a few days. He was lonely, then. Not even Mommy or his moderator was there.  _

_ He just wanted his friend. His friend who was sort of an authority and sort of a dad.  _

_ Friend was his first Word.  _

_ Bars was his second. _

_ The Winter Soldier betrayed HYDRA years later, leaving the training facility in metaphorical shambles, and then they didn’t have the resources to take care of Weapons One through Ten anymore. _

_ He had 10 Words and a last resort by then. He was everything the Winter Soldier was and even more.  _

_ The cells were so quiet afterwards, but it didn’t matter when he picked up the gun and shot just like he was taught.  _

_ 8 is a small number to kill your first person at.  _

❖

Miss Romanoff’s stories were more eventful than Mr. Stark’s. She’d been all over the world, from Brazil to Tokyo to Tasmania. While Mr. Stark’s stories made him laugh, they didn’t set him on the edge of his seat like when Miss Romanoff talked about Black Widow. Her stories were about people and events, a man with a pretty voice in Pakistan who ended up selling her out, a little girl with a wicked doll collection in Romania who didn’t know who she was but liked her hair enough to keep a secret. 

Peter could tell Mr. Stark was dozing off behind him, even if his sunglasses made it look like he was awake, he certainly wasn’t alert. His head tilted back and his posture was relaxed, though the simple presence of him eased Peter’s nerves.

He was on his 8th cookie when he offered Miss Romanoff his 9th. 

He supposed Miss Romanoff was sort of like Miss Parker, someone he hadn't known as long as Mr. Stark but someone who didn’t smell like lies and malicious intent. He was hesitant to trust both, Miss Romanoff was rather intimidating because she was an equal, but she smiled warmly and took his cookie.

A peace treaty, sort of. Peter had learned to treasure every piece of food he’d been given, and even though it was a frequent gift here he still wasted none of it. He never knew when he’d lack it. So to him, offering the cookie was important.

And Miss Romanoff hesitating to take it was important too, because she was like him. She probably suspected the significance of such a simple action, and she didn’t want to force it.

That was nice. He scrunched his nose, the beginning of a smile. 

The cookies were warm and soft. A little too much salt, but that was fine. The texture was different, but this kind of different was good. It reminded him of warm bread,  better than warm bread. 

It was kind of amazing that something could be better than warm bread. Maybe Miss Romanoff could teach him how to bake? 

“And this woman’s name was… Mrs. Leonov. She was really weird, you know?” She made a circular motion around her ears. “Her real name was Beatris, but she hated being called that, so I just called her Mrs. Leonov. Anyways, Mrs. Leonov and Marcus were great friends, and it was hard to get a read on Marcus because Mrs. Leonov  _ hated  _ me. I was a little impressed, because it takes a lot for people to be so suspicious of someone.” 

Peter hummed. People were naturally trusting by nature as long as something fit in. Miss Romanoff continued after he nodded.

“But I learned really quickly that she was that way with everyone. They went out to get coffee and she practically snatched the thing out of the barista’s hands. She needed to relax.”

Miss Romanoff bit into the cookie, showing the bite mark to Peter. He nodded approvingly. They did that every time, it was a routine. Routines were familiar. Familiarity helped Peter through the conversation, even if Miss Romanoff wasn’t as scary as Black Widow.

It was a bit strange interacting with her without the guidance of Mr. Stark, but he could do it with a lot of effort and help. 

“She eventually cornered me and accused me of being a government lizard person sent to get information from her in order to recruit her for the Illuminati, of all things! She was very close, but at the same time she was so far away. It was a little funny.” 

“She was kind of close, wasn’t she?” Peter asked Miss Romanoff. “She identified the fact that you were abnormal and therefore probably untrustworthy, she must’ve had reasonably good intuition.” 

Miss Romanoff nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, I’ve considered that, but I was given no material to gauge whether her reaction to even strangers was reasonable or not, considering it was such a strange claim. I don’t honestly believe the coffee shop barista is a lizard sent by the Illuminati.” 

Peter opened his mouth and took in a breath. Miss Romanoff halted her rambling to listen to him. 

“What’s coffee?” he asked shyly. “I’ve… heard about it. Mr. Stark, sir, mentions it a lot.” 

Miss Romanoff thought, and then reached over for the decorated mug that she had brought in with the pan of cookies. She tilted it so that Peter could see the almost-black liquid in the bottom of it, staining the walls brown. 

Peter’s nose wrinkled, he couldn’t quite describe the smell but whatever it was, it was strong.

“I brought it in for Tony. He’s a little addicted to the stuff, which he needs to stop, honestly.” There was a hint of amusement in her voice.

“Is it a drug?” It didn’t smell like any drug he’d been exposed to. It didn’t look like it either, though he knew better than to assume absence in foods, especially when they were easily hidden in baked pastries he’d never eaten nor heard the name of. 

“No, no. It’s not a drug, just caffeine. You know what caffeine is?” 

Caffeine  _ sounded  _ familiar, maybe one of his earlier lessons mentioned it. He shook his head, leaning forward as if he could hear better by getting closer when everything was already so loud to him. 

“Caffeine stimulates the central nervous system. It doesn’t get you high, but it wakes you up some,” Miss Romanoff explained.

It sounded kind of like a drug. Not something he’d been trained against, so probably not dangerous. “And it’s in coffee?”

“Coffee beans, yes,” Miss Romanoff handed him the mug, and Peter took it with both of his hands. “Do you want to try it?”

Peter nodded quickly. “Mr. Stark likes it?”

“He loves it,” Miss Romanoff assured. “It’s not that bad to me, either.”

“It wakes you up?” Peter asked again, repeating Miss Romanoff’s earlier words. Why would Mr. Stark be addicted to a liquid drug that only woke him up?

“It does,” Miss Romanoff smiled at him.

“Why would Mr. Stark need a waking drug?” Peter continued his questions, chewing the inside of his cheek. “Does he have a sleeping problem?” 

It was then that Mr. Stark made a loud noise, a rumbly, nasally sort of noise. It wasn’t unlike someone with a clogged nose.

Peter jumped at least a foot in the air, face pale. Some of the dark drink spilled from the cup, but it wasn’t a significant amount. 

Miss Romanoff laughed, and covered her mouth. She met his bewildered eyes, and snorted. “I’m sorry, that’s just the first time I’ve heard him do that. Clint talks about it all the time.”

“He’s asleep, isn’t he?” Peter asked urgently. “Is he okay?”

“That’s just snoring,” Miss Romanoff chuckled when Peter dropped his cup to check Mr. Stark’s pulse. “Sometimes people do it when they’re sleeping.”

Peter pulled on Mr. Stark’s chin to open his mouth. “Can he breathe? Is he dying?”

A cold touch landed on his shoulder, and he whirled around, hand extended in the webbing position. Miss Romanoff lifted her hands so that Peter could see they were empty. 

“He’s fine, Peter. Just in deep sleep.” Miss Romanoff sounded patient, even if she was explaining something so simple.

Peter sat down again, this time closer to Mr. Stark. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. He’s alright, there’s no danger.” She put a hand over her heart, a promise.

_ Safe. _

Mr. Stark was safe. Peter didn’t know what he would to if he wasn’t, probably make him safe. 

The mere thought of being without him froze his veins and sent a shudder down his skin, prickling goosebumps and alerting his senses. It wouldn’t happen, his priority mission was to protect the people who held the administrator position. It was the first line in his code, the very first direction. His  _ purpose _ .

The thought that he absolutely wouldn’t hesitate to kill himself if it meant saving an administrator should’ve bothered him, but it didn’t. He was so completely numb to it that it was normalized, and wasn’t everyone that way? He was just doing his duty. 

He let out a breath. “He’s just sleeping, he’s just sleeping.” 

“You’ve got it,” Miss Romanoff agreed. Peter burrowed underneath Mr. Stark’s arm; there he was warm and safe, safe,  _ safe. _

“He’s been tired lately,” Peter whispered. “I think it’s because of me, I’ve been making him tired.” 

Miss Romanoff didn’t give him a pitying smile or make a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat, which he was grateful for. She just nodded and said, “He’s like this, though he usually doesn’t fall asleep around other people.” 

Peter knew how that felt. It was a trust thing, Peter wouldn’t fall asleep around Miss Romanoff either. 

It sounded harsh, but that was just the way his kind of trust worked. It was sort of like a minefield, an honest mistake will get you killed no matter how small.

“That’s… weird. That he’s doing it now,” Peter settled on. That was an accurate way of expressing that train of thought. He could understand why Mr. Stark wouldn’t fall asleep around people he didn’t trust, but he couldn’t understand why he would do it now when Miss Romanoff didn’t fully have that trust back yet. And that was ignoring the fact that he was there.

“Well, Tony must trust you a lot,” Miss Romanoff replied, a certain inflection in her voice that made it sound like there wasn’t an ounce of doubt in her body. 

“Really?” he inquired hopefully, his breath hitching halfway through the word. 

“Really.” 

Peter wrung his hands, unnaturally aware of how loud he was breathing. “But– I– Mr.–  _ Me?” _

“You.” There was that tone again.

Peter breathed out. “You’ve got– you’re lying, Miss.” 

Miss Romanoff leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees and tangling her fingers together. “You know, he talks about you a lot. Every time he texts us, it’s a picture or a video. He really cares about you.”

“No,” Peter said slowly. “It’s only been a month.”

Miss Romanoff reached into a pocket on her leather jacket, and Peter flinched. She showed him her phone and then pulled up a message. 

 

**Messages**

 

**Nat** _ >>> _ **Tony Stank**

 

T: _[peteristhepuppy.jpg](https://pics.me.me/ive-only-had-arlo-for-a-day-and-a-half-18708349.png)_

 

She opened the image, and turned the phone around so that Peter could see.

Peter’s lips quirked up. That was… nice. A nice sentiment. He found himself agreeing with that. 

“Funny, never thought I’d see the day when Tony would use a meme,” Miss Romanoff hummed and turned off her phone. “But then again, I always thought he was bad with kids. Now look at him.” 

Peter stared at her socks for a few seconds before asking quietly. “Does he really trust me?”

Miss Romanoff opened her mouth, and then closed it. “He must, baby spider.”

That was also nice. 

“I’ve never really had anyone trust me before,” Peter whispered. “My administrator never did. I always had to restart when I messed up.”

“No one?”

Peter nodded. “No one.” 

“Well,” Miss Romanoff stood up and placed a hand on his shoulder. This time he didn’t jump. “0 plus 2 equals 2, change that no one to someone.” 

Peter blinked slowly. 2… Miss Romanoff?

He met her eyes as she turned to walk out the door, and he called out for her to wait. He snatched a cookie from the baking sheet, and skidded to a stop. He never really realized how tall she was until she was standing right in front of him.

He held up the cookie to her timidly. “Thanks.”

She smiled, big and wide. It looked nice on her. “You’re welcome. Try that coffee, why don’t you?” 

She took the cookie, then left.

He did try the coffee drug, and he immediately decided that he hated it.

Mr. Stark woke up in time to see his face when he drank it. He felt a little offended when the man laughed as hard as he did. He didn’t really mind, though.

This… this was nice.

Peter laughed with him, and this time it didn’t feel wrong. He didn’t get smacked or beat or locked up.

Safe.

He was starting to define  _ safe _ , his very own Word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> open the image tony sent its an actual thing i figured out how to do lol 
> 
> how do ppl put images like right in the text?? ;;;w; 
> 
> thank yall who sent me love on tungle. i love u too <3 <3 <3 :"3 
> 
> also guyssysyys stop figuring out my age and complimenting me i die a little inside every time someone says they wish i had my talent bc a) what talent, b) U DO HAVE TALENT MATE ILL FIGHT U
> 
> SQUARE UP ILL MEET BEHIND THE DENNYS NEXT THURSDAY. ILL BUY U PANCAKES AND A HOT CHOCOLATE AND THEN WE CAN THROW HANDS (ง'̀-'́)ง (ง'̀-'́)ง (ง'̀-'́)ง


	23. Mission: Pepper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ftgyfd dO ANY OF YALL LIKE NINTENDO BC I DO AND IM DYING
> 
> THE NEW BREATH OF THE WILD TRAILER???? IM SCREECHING THEY GAVE ZELDA SHORT HAIR I LOVE IT IT LOOKS SO GOOD
> 
> JKHGJFFHGHJ 
> 
> NO TWs TODAY PLS ENJOY!

           To say that Tony was stressed would be the biggest understatement in the history of human language. It was ridiculous.

           He felt a little bad for practically neglecting the kid, but it seemed like his mere presence was more than enough for him, so Tony lived on his tablet. He really needed to teach Peter how to have better standards when it came to relationships. 

           He sent that email for the fifth time that day, the fifth time he’s told some SHIELD asshole  _ no, I won’t give over a child to your dumbass spy club. _

           He’d gotten a myriad of responses to that, the worst of all was asking for proof of age. He had to directly link to Helen Cho’s notes stating loud and clear that the kid was 15 or 14, somewhere in between. He was a child, there was no other way to put it, but SHIELD had taken a look at all the work Tony had been doing on “unknown substances” and “non-Avenger related missions” and how he was trying to contact the Quinjet from wherever the fuck Bruce had taken it, and said he was being suspicious and therefore everything needed to be searched without permission.

           It had taken them 2 weeks. 2 weeks to find out about Peter and he was quietly seething over it, because now they were calling him a  _ potential threat  _ and a  _ opportunity  _ like the kid hadn’t just stopped calling himself Weapon, for fuck’s sake.

           He was angry, and stressed, and tired because his own nightmares weren’t pleasant at all but dealing with a screaming, begging kid was even worse. 

           And Pepper wasn’t helping either, because she was stressed too, and she got just as angry as he did when she was stressed. That came in the form of some angry texting and a lot of time explaining to her that Peter was his top priority and he would hear her if she called him. 

           His reprieve was that Rhodes was arriving the next day. He had some difficulty working out how to explain that he needed War Machine for Avenger business without giving away that Tony was harboring— as Nick Fury’s little agents so eloquently put it— a minor who may have committed an unknown amount of terrorist crimes and who admitted to murdering 3 innocent people without any known provocation. 

           Tony was perfectly aware that Peter was dangerous, his back still hurt from that little outburst where he got slammed against a wall, but it was obvious that the kid was obedient to a fault. Tony would bet his entire life that if he told him to jump off a bridge, he wouldn’t hesitate. 

           He had to twist Nick’s arm to even let Peter get out of that room and into a doctor’s office, so Tony was a little peeved. 

           And it was really difficult being as pissed as he was around Pete without him thinking that  _ he  _ did something wrong. The Spiderling could smell his emotions, he swore. 

           Another email came in from the same dude requesting the same thing, and Tony slammed the tablet down.

           Peter jumped onto the wall, eyes wide. “Sir?” he asked quietly.

           Tony melted into the chair, his eyelids heavy. “I’m sorry, buddy. Just— frustrated.” 

           “Why?” 

           God, if that wasn’t a loaded question. 

           “About nothing important,” he said, though Peter frowned, “just some people being exceedingly difficult.” 

           “Is it classified?” Peter assumed, hesitantly like it was a wrong question to ask. 

           “Yeah,” Tony sighed. “I guess it is, sorry kid.” 

           Peter nodded, though his shoulders were more tense, and went back to that university-level math textbook Tony had brought in because it was glaringly obvious that the kid was getting bored as hell and he needed to use his brain. 

           It was then that his phone buzzed with a text. It was Nat, telling him to  _ open the door, Stark, or I’ll kick it down.  _

           “Petey,” Tony started. “Natasha is here, I think she wants to hang out again.” 

           Peter hummed in acknowledgement, and then quickly added a “Yessir.” 

           What he was not expecting when he answered the door was Nat with her serious assassin face on and telling him that Pepper had just landed.

           “Who’s Pepper?" 

           Tony was thinking about how to respond to that when Nat pursed her lips and said "She can't meet us here."

           He turned around faster than he thought his body would allow when Peter choked. 

⎊

           “You,” Pepper said when she spotted him while walking out of the plane. “You have some explaining to do, sir. I’ve gotten email after email from SHIELD regarding your little pet project.”

           The private runway was buzzing with security and employees. A couple people shouted at each other in the background, and the wind was loud, but otherwise it was quiet. Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but just soundless. 

           “Welcome home,” Tony replied sarcastically. “How was your trip to Malibu?” 

           Pepper let go of her suitcase and scowled. “Productive, until Mr. Nicholas J. Shady told me you were housing a terrorist.” 

           “Aaaand that’s a lie.” He ran a hand through his hair, and pointed at Pepper briefly, who was obviously very unimpressed. “He’s not a terrorist, he’s a child. He’s brainwashed–”

           Pepper sighed and put a hand up. “Stop,  _ stop. _ We can’t keep him here, Tony. What if this gets out? What if SHIELD decides that they aren’t going to play nice anymore?” 

           “I have contingency plans around every corner, Pep Pep.” He explained. “I’m prepared for that kind of situation. Helen and I are trying to figure out who this kid was before he was taken.” They needed that. Helen said that it would probably give them more area to work with concerning medical stuff, and Bucky agreed, saying that it would give Peter some closure if he reacted well.

           He was clinging onto that  _ if. If _ he reacted well. God, he hoped so. 

           “SHIELD knows better than us about this kind of thing. He shut the entire tower down, Tony! FRIDAY is in the top 5 for the most secure network in the country, he shut  _ that _ down,” Pepper fingered a ginger clump of hair, and Tony realized just how frazzled she really looked. Her hair was a mess and her eyes were tired. It was a look he recognized on himself but hated on her. 

           “God, I wish I could trust SHIELD, but you saw the info leak,” Tony looked at her with pleading eyes. “You saw how easily they were infiltrated. HYDRA revived right under their noses, and HYDRA still has ties.” 

           “The safest hands are the people who have experience,” she retorted. “He would be safe, there–”

           She sounded so much like Rogers it hurt.

           “Safe?  _ Safe?  _ In the goddamn Raft, Pep?” Tony stressed, hating the way his voice raised. He took a moment to calm down before continuing, he didn’t want to have a screaming match with Pepper when she could be just as stubborn as he could. “He’s a child, Pepper. He’s a child and I can’t just hand him over to some other unreliable organization who will probably just use him like he’s been used his entire life.” 

           Pepper scoffed, and Tony immediately realized that he needed to do more explaining than he thought. “It’s been a month, Tony! A month, are you really willing to risk getting into some knee-deep shit with SHIELD over a kid you barely know?”

           “I’m ready to wade through as much shit as I need to because he deserves that!” Tony’s voice got louder again, but it was to match Pepper this time. He was her equal, god damnit!

           “He’s a terrorist!” Pepper shouted back, pointing a finger at him accusingly. “You have some pretty suspicious double standards, Tony! This  _ kid  _ is like Barnes but worse, he was  _ raised  _ in that environment! He’s probably killed more people than you can imagine, why do you want to keep something like that in our home?” 

           “I can’t jump straight to 11 when he’s  _ traumatized  _ by literally everything in his life up until now!  _ You  _ can’t even imagine what it’s like to hear a 14 year old boy say his name is  _ Weapon  _ when you ask!” Tony spat. “This is different than Barnes precisely  _ because  _ he’s a kid!” 

           Pepper crossed her arms, nose wrinkling. “And what happens when the families he’s ruined want retribution? Are you just going to hide him from justice?”

           “If that’s what it takes to let him live normally!”

           “He’s HYDRA!”

           “He’s  _ me!”  _

           The silence was so loud that it was deafening. Tony’s throat closed up, how loud did he say that?

           Loud enough for Pepper to take a different approach, apparently. And that scared him, it scared him that it rattled her that much. Oh god, who was he becoming?

           “Tony…”

           He wasn’t giving up, though.

           “No, I get it. You haven’t held him through his worst and seen him at his best. At his best he’s everything I could’ve been, everything that I’m not, Pep.” 

_            He’s the future  _ went unspoken on his lips, even though it was there. There in every way that mattered. 

           “I understand now that you care very much, Tony, but I’m thinking realistically–” Pepper tried.

           “No! No, this is where you listen. I’m not sure what me,” he made a wild hand gesture, leaning forward to put emphasis on how ridiculous the thought of abandoning Peter,  _ his Peter,  _ was, “ _ giving up on him _ will do to his brain. He looks at me like I molded the fucking moon and hung the stars.” His face relaxed at the pause. “And I can’t be my father, Pepper. I can’t do that to him.” 

           Peter was so new, maybe not  _ pure  _ in the way most people understood the word, but pure in his very own way. He had this energy, this energy that really did remind him of a puppy who had been kicked too many times and needed a little help to get back on his feet. Tony wanted desperately to mean something to someone in the way Peter meant to him, and the kid adored him. Was he really so selfish for wanting it to stay like that?

           “So  _ that’s _ what this is about?” Pepper asked quietly. “Howard?” 

_            It’s always about Howard,  _ something in his mind whispered, but he locked that thought up tight and swallowed the key. 

           He wet his lips, “Yeah, because what my kid needs is someone who cares, not someone who will ship him off to another facility.” 

           Pepper raised an eyebrow, though her facial expression was softer, more open. “You’re trying to be this kid’s dad?”

           “His name is Peter,” he choked out.

           “Is  _ this  _ who Peter is? You’ve named him?” she breathed incredulously. 

           Tony resented that. He resented the way that was said, like Pepper expected him to let Peter remain in the delusion that he wasn’t deserving of anything anyone else would be. Deserving of the world. Everything.  _ Something.  _

           “He’s not an animal, Pep. He’s… He’s  _ Peter.”  _ He didn’t know how to explain him in any other manner. Peter was indescribable in the way that it would take a book to write it all down, and he wasn’t about to read a novel to Pepper. 

           “Tony,” she took a deep breath, “exactly how attached are you?”

           Tony made a cupping motion with his hands, asking silently for her to understand. “Attached enough. I swear, he’s–” 

           This time the hand that Pepper put up was gentler, more willing to listen. “You do know that children aren’t like DUM-E or FRIDAY, right? You can’t just… crack them open and dust off all their issues, issues that someone like Steve or Barnes would be more experienced in handling.”

           Tony flinched at that, he flinched hard. He knew Peter wasn’t a robot, he knew that even though maybe the kid didn’t know it himself, but to suggest that he should let Steve and Barnes handle him when he saw how bad Peter reacted? No way in hell. 

           “I know he’s not some machine, Pepper. But god, sometimes he thinks he is. Sometimes he trusts so easily that it terrifies me, because he’s so fragile.”

           Fragile in the way that leaving would shatter him. The kid had gotten so dependent that it took a promise of instant response and a 10 minute long hug to get the kid to calm down enough to let him leave. The breakdown was practically instantaneous, Peter had started  _ choking  _ and all he could hear was his own breathing in that cave after they waterboarded him in Afghanistan. It was terrifying.

           Tony needed to fill the pause in the conversation while Pepper thought, so he filled it with words. “You know, I asked him about robotics. I wanted to know if– if they taught him anything other than where to slit a man’s neck.” He paused to swallow around the lump in his throat. “His eyes  _ lit up _ , Pep. He looked so happy, so happy that someone bothered to listen to him talk for once. And grateful even when we didn’t talk, too.”

           Pepper was searching him with those pretty eyes of her’s, searching for some hint of uncertainty. 

           “He finished a book that I gave him, a damn thick book too,” he laughed a little, a nervous sound, “and he finally started asking me questions. He’s so naïve, but in the way a little kid is. He asked me  _ what’s sunshine.” _

           Pepper’s lips drew a tight line.

           “He didn’t know that sunshine was, Pepper. And I want to show him some day. You can’t use words for everything, you know?”

           Pepper grabbed her suitcase, shoulders relaxing. She really did look exhausted. “I want to meet him, when he’s ready.” 

           “You do?” That question sounded a little more pathetic than he wanted it to sound, but he couldn’t stop it.

           She smiled, and god he had missed that smile. He really had. “I do. He sounds just like you, Tony.”

           “He does?”

           She brushed his shoulder with a feather-light touch of her fingers when she walked past him, suitcase wheeling behind her. “You did say he was your kid.” 

           He stood there for a couple minutes, open mouthed. 

           He did. He did say that. Those exact words.  _ My kid. _

           And nothing in that entire conversation was scarier than realizing that Tony didn’t mind at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @ Micah i hope??? this lived up to what u were expecting ilysm i would die for u (u too Emma hi auntie uwu)
> 
> sAME GOES FOR ALL YALL, YALL ARE SO KIND i dont even know what i did to deserve all the sweet comments but i get them anyways and im so grateful <3 <3 <3 
> 
> this is the LAST THURSDAY of school and im so excited but its also 90 degrees F outside and its horrible lol. pls dont be like me and stay hydrated!!!! 
> 
> i love u guys, see u later!!!!


	24. Mission: Secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi!! AAAAA schools over!!!! im so hype but i also forgot that yesterday was wednesday so its actually been thursday for like 7 hours, nothing new lmao. 
> 
> SOME OF YALLS predictive abilities scare me. r yall mind readers? can u hear my thoughts? ;;owo 
> 
> anyways pls enjoy this chapter, end notes are important pls read them! 
> 
> no TWs today

**Inbox (** _ 7,409 _ **)**

 

**[** _[ **REDACTED_UNKNOWN_SERV**](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/530973403516239874/591058894285963275/image0.jpg)_ **]** _> >>_ **virginiappotts@starkmail.sec**

**Subject:** URGENT

 

           Mrs. Potts,

 

           It has come to our attention that Mr. Stark is harboring a dangerous fugitive, who has direct ties with HYDRA. We’re sure that you are aware of what HYDRA is.

 

           With the little information we have left after the leak, we found out exactly what this means to HYDRA. It seems that they have been breeding a new type of Winter Soldier under our noses. Weapons. There seems to be only 1 left. 

 

           We have enough information to create a plan of action. However, this plan relies on you and Mr. Stark’s compliance.

 

           This is where we hit a roadblock, Mrs. Potts. Mr. Stark remains adamant that the Spider be allowed to remain in his possession and that the Spider is just another child. He’s shown on many occasions that he will not change his mind, and this is why we’re contacting you.

 

           Here are some of the exchanges we’ve had with Mr. Stark about the Weapon.

 

__ __ _ anthonyestark@starkmail.secSubject:UR… _

__ __ __ _ anthonyestark@starkmail.secSubject:Re… _

__ __ _ anthonyestark@starkmail.secSubject:Re… _

__ __ _ ironmanurgent@starkmail.secSubject:Th… _

__ __ _ ironmanurgent@starkmail.secSubject:Re… _

__ __ _ ironmanurgent@starkmail.secSubject:Re… _

 

           In the third link, he has provided medical documents that only increase our concerns. The highlighted (yellow) section discusses exactly what kind of enhancements the Spider has, and the underlined (red) section has a DNA percentage estimate. 

 

           This is an extremely dangerous individual, and as Mr. Stark has said, they are still young. HYDRA has no doubt conditioned them, and SHIELD cannot allow the Weapon to continue to remain inside Avengers Tower without further security measures taken. Mr. Stark is being very uncooperative in this effort, which is a large problem that needs to be dealt with.

 

           We understand that Mr. Stark has gone through a lot, though his feelings are not a part of this situation and will never be.  _ We will escalate this if we have to _ , though we hope that won’t be the case. 

 

           In case you need a little more encouraging,  [ _ here _ ](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1xE5ksTkKSqbp8lQAOfT-le_tVdmEtwCgra5ivNeV8Ls/edit?usp=sharing) is the only mission document that we could obtain. The redacted words are not of our doing. It was discontinued in 2013, when HYDRA was moving all of their servers in order to carry out the 2014 “SHIELDRA” event.

           And _here_ is security footage of the murder of Aaron and Emily Reese. We hope that you and Mr. Stark can reach a consensus that lines up with everyone’s best interests. 

 

           Pepper’s hands shook when she closed the video, the sound of shattering glass and flesh tearing still ringing in her ears. 

           Objectively, she’d seen worse. She’d been through worse. EXTREMIS still made her bones go cold with dread every time she thought about it. But this...

           On the colorless video, the dark brown eyes that peered up at the camera through thick bangs and a heavy hood looked pitch black. 

           Static sounded a lot worse than she remembered.

           And the document, the names crossed out, names that used to be people. That was in the Tower, around her Tony. 

           Her eyes flicked to the footnote at the end of the email, and she started writing the reply. It was simple, really. Just 8 words, a comma, and a period.

 

**Inbox (** _ 9,081 _ **)**

 

**virginiappotts@starkmail.sec** _ >>> _ **[** _[ **REDACTED_UNKNOWN_SERV** ](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/530973403516239874/591058894285963275/image0.jpg) _ **]**

**Subject:** Re: URGENT

 

           Agent Roosevelt,

 

           I’ll talk to him about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, sorry for having such a short chapter, bUT theres more content. lemme try to explain, lol
> 
> theres a couple working links in this entire thing. the words that r supposed to be links will be italicized and underlined, so maybe try clicking on some of those??? 
> 
> (one of them is a google doc, and idk if people can mess with my drive by viewing a doc? so im throwing yall a big trust right now. pls dont be sketchy <3) 
> 
> BIG THANKS TO SOPH AND WATTY, who proofread that doc because i suck and mess up a lot. i love yall 
> 
> and i want to say i know im really hecking bad at responding to yall's comments, and while i do get overwhelmed sometimes i wouldn't trade u guys for the world. just know that if u commented i definitely do read it and scree for like 30 minutes over getting a comment. im not ignoring yall!!! im just awkward ;w; 
> 
> hopefully the hidden links make up for lack of word count? i love u guys, keep being amazing <3 <3 <3


	25. Mission: You’re Strong, Look At Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ksksksks I know it’s saturday, I’m so sorry for having a delayed chapter. this week was pretty emotional and I had a crap ton of art to get done, so I didn’t get much time to actually write this chapter. If I did write it in between everything, I feel like it would be terrible. This is an important chapter too, so :/ 
> 
> Again, I’m super sorry. I’m also posting on mobile so if the formatting is wack pls yell at me. 
> 
> No TWs today!

“You know, they put a lot in that email,” Pepper commented, thanking him for helping her with her luggage. “Sorry about that, I was supposed to be in Malibu until next week, but I had to pack quickly.”

“Mhm,” Tony grunted, slumping on the couch. God, it had been forever since he could sit on this couch. It felt heavenly. “I am dead, I want AD/DC at my funeral.”

“Sure,” Pepper wandered over to the sink to wash her hands. The wet towel that someone– probably Clint, to be honest– left in there hitting the counter with a splat. “They’ll put it in the papers. Iron Man: defeated by some luggage.”

“The death of Tony Stark,” he agreed, sliding down the couch childishly. Pepper snorted and sat next to him.

If he was honest, he really was tired, and he did regret talking to Pepper like he did. She was focused on pulling something up on her phone, and he debated breaking the silence but his mouth was determined to stay quiet.

“Here, read this, it’s a new email,” Pepper said. “I have that report saved, I’m figuring that you could pull some strings and get Fury to stop being a secretive dick. I want to know the face behind this Agent Roosevelt, I’ve never spoken with him before and SHIELD is pretty close to the Avengers Initiative so it’s sending me sketchy vibes.”

“If it’s giving you sketchy vibes then something must be up,” Tony remarked, sitting up.

He scrolled through the email, reading the first few paragraphs but just skimming once he figured that it was the same as the others. He stopped at the last couple words. “This is the report?”

“Mission record,” Pepper clarified. “It’s up until late 2013, HYDRA probably changed servers so they could infiltrate SHIELD.”

“Every mission until 2013,” Tony raised an eyebrow at her. He clicked the link. “When does it start?”

“2012,” she pushed Tony’s shoulder so that she could see what he was reading. “2012, but it was created in 2011.”

“FRI,” Tony called, “can you put this in your database and scan it? I want to know all of the redacted info, maybe pull a couple names from this.”

“I can sure try, Boss.”

Pepper relaxed a little. “I just, Tony,” she started. “Tony. I know you care about the kid– Peter– but maybe think about that document. Really think about it. Read it.”

“I am, Pep,” he said, putting down the phone. “I’ll read it.”

“You see those people, Tony?” she whispered, lifting the phone up again. “Those were real people, with families and friends and lives. They’re not just names on a sheet.”

Tony’s lips drew a straight line. This felt too much like the reason that led to him fighting Steve, too much and it scared him. “I know that, I do, Pep. But so is Peter, Peter has a family out there, he’s not just a weapon.”

“I just don’t want your name to be on that sheet,” Pepper said quietly, and though her voice didn’t quiver Tony could see the emotion behind her eyes. “Promise me, Anthony. Promise me you’ll be careful with him. Watch that video, read that document, for me.”

This was something that Tony wasn’t good at, promises and emotions and absolutes. But he put his hand on Pepper’s and replied, voice equally as low, “I promise you, Pep. I promise you that if anything happens, I’ll be careful.”

Pepper breathed in, her smile small. “Alright, I trust you.”

Though Tony knew that, it felt reassuring to hear.

⎊

Eventually he did have to go back to Peter’s room. It really did feel nice to get out, because even if the room was nice, it wasn’t nice in the way something lived in felt. Peter barely really touched anything, the shower was probably the most used thing in there, discounting the pillow that the kid had a weird attachment to.

What he was not expecting to endure when he opened the door to the room, though, was an armful of distressed, hyperventilating teenager.

“Hey Pete,” Tony greeted softly. “You okay there, bud?”

What he got in response was a jumble of high pitched whining noises, punctuated by a sharp sob.

Tony hoped that some day Peter would just hug him. The only time that he seemed to initiate contact was when he was extremely distressed, and while that was healthy, Tony wanted to tell him that it was okay to hug people without having a reason to. But Pete really was so bipolar when it came to consenting to physical contact, it was hard to tell when it was okay to broach the subject.

Despite that, he pulled Peter in close and let the kid gain back his voice. “What happened?” Tony asked Natasha.

She seemed stiff-shouldered and tense, sitting on the still-stripped bed. “He thought you weren’t coming back. He freaked out.”

Peter shrilled something unintelligible.

Natasha pursed her lips. “I had to restrain him for a little, he was... trying to get out.”

He mouthed a sympathetic oh, rubbing circles into Peter’s back and sinking a little so he was eye-to-eye with him. “Hi there, kiddo.”

Peter aggressively wiped away his tears, eyes red and puffy. He’d probably been crying for a while, then. Tony’s heart hurt. “I thought y-you were dea—“ he hiccuped, “dead. I would— would’ve m-malfunctioned in the w-worst way.”

“Do you wanna look at me?” Tony inquired gently. The phrasing what rhetorical but he meant it as a genuine question. Peter seemed to me looking anywhere but in his eyes. “My eyes are here,” he pointed his index and middle finger at his eyes, “not on my nose, Petey. You listen to me, kid.”

“‘M a-allowed?” he mumbled, voice hoarse. “To look at y-your eyes?” If Tony could feel any more guilty for leaving the kid hanging, then he did.

“Of course. I would never be mad at you for something like that.” Tony blinked at Peter when he made eye contact, and the kid blinked right back, rubbing at his eyes like he’d never done something so simple before. “Peter, you’re a person, remember? People don’t malfunction, they just make mistakes.”

“T-that’s weird,” he commented, completely ignoring the last part of Tony’s sentence. That was okay, Tony could deal with that. “Your eyes look like c-coffee, sir.”

Even though he’d been doing something similar for a bit now, Tony was still so proud when Peter voiced his mind like that. He did it a lot, after what he liked to call the puppy ordeal, and was more confident about doing so after Natasha started telling him stories. Tony patted himself on the back for making the right call that someone with a different– more experienced, his mind whispered– skill set would help Peter warm up to the idea of informal conversation.

“Yeah?” Tony smiled at him, and then pointed at Peter’s eyes, making sure his movements were slow and unassuming. “Well your’s look like chocolate, do you remember what that is?”

Peter nodded quickly, hands lifting up to his face like he could take the color from his eyes and look at the hue in his hands. “M-mhm. Miss Roman- Miss Romanoff had choko– choe–”

“Chocolate,” Tony repeated slowly. He felt a little like he was talking to a child, and he was, but someone much younger than 14 or 15. It wasn’t difficult, though. It was strangely like talking to anyone else, just with a little more awareness of tone and word usage.

“Chocolate,” Peter echoed. “C-chocolate. Miss Romanoff had chocolate in her c-cookies.”

Tony’s eyes unwillingly flicked up to Natasha, who looked a bit more relaxed, but still not nearly as comfortable as she had previously been with Pete. He looked back at Peter. “Yeah, buddy. My eyes look like coffee, and your’s look like chocolate, but melted and warm.”

Fudge came to mind, but Tony thought that explaining why fudge had a different name than just warm, melted chocolate would give both of them a headache.

“Like sunshine?” Peter asked, his voice less wobbly. Tony noticed that his bottom lip looked chewed and all scabbed over, and he frowned.

Peter stepped back, opening his mouth for an apology, but Tony put his hands on his shoulders. “Yes, just like sunshine. You get it. What do you say, how about we set a program?”

Peter swallowed, he could see his adam’s apple bobbing. “A p-program?”

Fuck, he shouldn’t have phrased it like that. “Do you remember how FRIDAY has protocols, like the one in the shower where she told you to use warm water?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter relaxed under Tony’s touch, looking tired and meek more than anything. Tony still had a hard time connecting that document to his kid, to his Peter.

When had he started using possessives so casually?

There was a little more nuance to Peter, he thought. Peter could hurt people, he had hurt people, but he was like Barnes in the way that he didn’t want to. This kid, his kid, wouldn’t hurt him unless he was forced to.

And while Tony’s greatest fear was that of the unknown, the fact that he couldn’t find a single maybe in that entire sentence jarred him to his bones.

Perhaps he was learning right along with Peter. How to be softer, more open. For all the physics and engineering and advanced math and goddamn parenting books he’d read, he sure was still pretty naïve about the nebulous concept that floated around Peter and Tony’s heads called trust.

Tony was beginning, slowly but still beginning, to understand the abstract way in which Peter understood words. Words with a dictionary definition, and how that same word could have a more personal, secretive meaning. Something completely different than what was written on paper.

It circled back, too, because all of the papers he had read about Peter this past month had also been wrong and different. Everytime the word Weapon, with a capital W, came up he wanted to break something, break something and hear it shatter. Like a window, or a vase.

He just hoped that eventually Pepper could see Peter, Peter as his kid, not as the meaningless, incorrect word on a digital sheet of paper.

“We can make a protocol, so that you know I’m always coming back. How does that sound?”

Peter bit his bottom lip and nodded. “Really, sir?”

Tony stood up. “Of course, sunshine. Nat can help too, can’t she?” He lifted an eyebrow at her, and stuck out his tongue when she rolled her eyes at him.

“Miss Romanoff?”

“If you don’t mind,” she replied fondly.

Peter smiled, really smiled. Big and wide and god, he finally looked like a 14 year old. “We can put broccoli in the name, right?”

Tony laughed, stretching. “Why broccoli? That doesn’t taste good with chocolate and coffee at all.”

“We can’t leave Miss Romanoff out!” Peter said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “And her eyes are broccoli-colored. The green small trees, remember?” The kid turned to Nat, who pointed at Tony and did a circle-motion around her ears.

“I don’t think he does, baby spider.”

“Hey!”

 

⎊ END OF PART ONE: MISSION ⎊

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank u guys for being so patient, both for waiting for this chapter to get out AND for reading part one!!! We still have quite a while until the story really gets going, though, so there’s definitely a lot more chapters until this monsters gonna be done. 
> 
> Also can we just acknowledge that this thing is nearly 120 pages on google docs? That’s crazy, this is probably the longest thing I’ve written literally EVER. And theres still so much more to go ;;;w;
> 
> I’m super hype for FFH too! I’m going to see the new EG footage tomorrow, hopefully I’ll snag a poster too. Hoping 🙏 
> 
> U guys stay hydrated and happy! I probably will see you next WEEKEND because I’m at my dads for the week of the 4th, and he’s got a problem with be being on electronics in general. After that the schedule will go back to normal, promise!


	26. Protocol: Brown, Green, Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya i know i said i was gonna release this on saturday or sunday but my dad took my phone so what can u do :/
> 
> on the bright side im back at my moms house and have a good big 2000 word chap for yall, hope u enjoy!! and sorry for taking so long to respond to comments, blame ao3 mobile for that 
> 
> TW for panic attacks w mentions of torture and vague mentions of child abuse

❖  START OF PART TWO: PROTOCOL  ❖

 

           Education, Peter thought, was a strange thing. It varied too much, varied too little, or was never put in the same category at all. He learned his basics, the alphabet, reading, writing, history and math and sciences, but they were simple exercises in memorization for him. He never truly understood why he was learning history when he would never be a historian, a person with freedom and feelings. He thought he’d never be anything more than what he was made to be.

           It was strange because, in his mind, his administrator was a perfect god of a man, with a moral compass that went unchallenged and a stern stride that kept moving forward, only pausing to correct malfunctions. But, learning with Tony Stark, he realized that education was more than a paddle to the cheek when he dared to be incorrect, it was explaining why.

           And explaining why was precisely the reason why it was so strange, because for 14 years–  _ 14,  _ his mind whispered,  _ 14 years old, he knew his age now _ – the only times he had been spoken to was when he was required to do something, but now he was speaking because he wanted to.

           His mind was still struggling to get around the concept of being a 14 year old, and the thoughts of whether he would age like metal weren’t helping at all. For all of Mr. Stark’s protests of him being a person, he never quite believed it.

           Mr. Stark told him that was how indoctrination worked, but his scared, 14 year old brain told him that it was just how the world was. Just because he was a person didn’t mean he was worthy of the title. 

           His mind was still struggling to believe that he was a human at all, and yet Mr. Stark was kind and slow with him. Even though robotics and creating things was the only thing they let him do for recreation, and even then it was only allowed when necessary, there was still a lot to learn, and having a teacher like Mr. Stark made the activity a lot more enjoyable than spending tedious hours teaching himself because no one bothered to expand his education farther than what was needed.

           He couldn’t help but feel so incredibly light whenever the billionaire complimented him on a strand of code, his eyes bright and wild with ideas. 

           He felt alive, and it was scary, but not nearly as scary as dying again. And everytime he or Miss Romanoff called him Peter, not Eleven, he was reminded of that.

           He was a lot of things, like a Weapon, a baby spider, sunshine, and Mr. Stark called him a kid often over the phone with this mysterious Pepper woman when he thought he couldn’t hear, but most importantly he was Peter, Pete, Petey. 

           So many names, he nearly had a hard time keeping track, but a guiding hand and a reassuring smile never hurt anyone. 

           Peter spent a lot of time on this protocol, as Mr. Stark put it. He had very limited access to FRIDAY, but he did the most that he could with it. He spent hours on a single page, making sure everything was perfect, because a mistake could mean someone died.

           Because even before he was Peter, he was a program. A program that was made to protect, serve, and obey everyone with access to that special little treasure chest that kept his heart locked inside his ribcage. Those were the people with hands on his control sticks, and if even 1 disappeared he’d fail his very programming. They would have to erase him and start all over.

           14 years. That was a long time to his developing brain. A long time to put into creating something like him. That god who was his administrator was just as kind as Mr. Stark, his brand of kindness was only something a little more harsh, and that was okay. Peter worshipped him all the same. 

           But there was a small, traitorous voice in his head that told him that his administrator’s harshness was born out of malevolence. 

           Sometimes it sounded like Mr. Stark, but when he was lonely, it sounded like Miles. 

           The next key that he hit made a noisy  _ clack,  _ and he realized that his nails had been digging into his palms. Miss Parker, when he visited her the day after Mr. Stark returned, told him that if he wanted to recover then he would need to stop hurting himself. Mr. Stark had generously gifted him something called a stress ball, a rubber sphere that squished under his grip.

           It felt a lot like the weird bed in the middle of the room, and he was starting to get used to puncturing something besides flesh but it was a hard transition. 

           Miss Parker was right, though. She reminded him of Dr. Schneider, but warmer. 

           She reminded him of Dr. Schneider if Dr. Schneider was like sunshine, he amended. Sunshine was such a pretty word, it could be used for so many things. He liked it. 

           He wondered that if he asked Mr. Stark, he would say that her eyes looked like sunshine chocolate too. 

           Were his eyes grey before? he thought, worrying his lip with his teeth. Were his eyes grey before he met Mr. Stark? Grey like Miles’? 

           He refused to become the next Winter Soldier, he refused to get up and leave the people who had raised him without a second thought, because unlike Miles,  _ they _ were his family.

           He didn’t know if that was a good thing anymore, though, because wasn’t the blood of the covenant thicker than the water of the womb? 

           Family was another strange thing. He never really heard the word until that tenth mark on that sheet of paper, and he never saw it until Elizabeth. Even then he never really grasped it until Mr. Stark. 

_            And would becoming the Winter Soldier really be such a horrid thing?  _ Miles asked him.

           Miles was dead, he had been for a while.

           “You okay there, kid?” 

           But Mr. Stark wasn’t, because it wasn’t in his programming to make it so. Mr. Stark was right up there with his divine administrator, immortal and holy. Untouchable.

           He couldn’t really fit Mr. Stark completely into that category, though, because he knew his name. Anthony Edward Stark, Iron Man. He was like Miss Romanoff and Miles, except not dead, never that. He was a new category.

           Maybe that new category could be called  _ family.  _

           And everything went still when he really thought about that new category, because maybe Mr. Stark wasn’t even the first in it. 

           “Yes, sir,” Peter replied, rubbing his forehead. “Just, confused.”

           Mr. Stark swiped the hologram away, he had been working alongside Peter on the protocol. Miss Romanoff had helped until she got bored and left, he couldn’t blame her. She was an active woman who needed to do active things. 

           “Confused about what?” Mr. Stark prodded. “Are you stuck?”

           Peter took a deep breath. “Not on the code.”

           Mr. Stark waited for him to elaborate, looking at him with the sort of expectancy that wasn’t demanding but still was… well… expectant. 

           “Do you know who the Winter Soldier is?” his voice was small, but it was so, so loud to his ears. He could hear his heartbeat, feel it in his throat.

           “You mean Barnes?”

           Peter went silent and still, all of the breath left his lungs. 

_            The quiet sounds of guitar, a band who he learned was called the Ink Spots, softly singing a song about fire and loss.  _

_            Mr. Barnes requested that he share some of his favorite music with you. _

           “Mr. Barnes?” Peter choked out, grabbing the edge of the table so hard that the wood at the ends split in half. “Mr. Barnes is the Winter Soldier?”

           His fingers felt cold, cold and blue and he didn’t believe that, he didn’t believe that the man who helped him fall asleep was the man who left and took everything with him. A _traitor._

           “Woah kiddo, how about we calm down?” Mr. Stark grabbed his arm, and Peter full-body flinched away from him.

           “You’re lying,” Peter accused. “You’re  _ lying.” _

           He wasn’t, though, because Mr. Stark didn’t lie. Because the faint heartbeat behind the arc reactor only picked up when the table started creaking under the pressure of his hands.

           He felt trapped, trapped in another bird cage, with frigid bars and a tally of days on the wall, counting down to a month. A month spent in complete silence and solitude, physically unable to sleep or to warm up. All he could hear was the buzz of the lights, all that came out of Mr. Stark’s mouth was static. 

_            He needed to get out. _

           He pushed Mr. Stark away, feeling his entire body go numb. He was in a blizzard, he was in a cave, he was in a cell with an order to forget. 

           His fingers stuck so easily to the wall, and the corner of the ceiling felt so nice.

_            Mr. Barnes is the Winter Soldier. _

           Something grabbed his arm, chasing away the dominating feeling of complete and utter nothingness, and he whipped his head around.

           “You’re safe,” Mr. Stark said quietly, and the static went away.

_            Safe.  _

           “ _ Stay _ , please.”

           Safe was a silent order, a silent warning, the same sort of nature that  _ friend  _ had _ ,  _ but far less sinister. Stay was something else, something a little more desperate but much more familiar.

           He was glitching again, recognizing Words that weren’t on that last. There were 10, 10 Words, 9 warnings and a kill order.  _ Stay _ and  _ safe _ were none of them, but they were the most important at the same time.

           They were his own Words, he remembered. He and Mr. Stark had made them.

           “You’re _ safe _ , Pete. You gotta  _ stay.” _

           The bite of snow felt so fake but so real, and Mr. Stark’s hand was so warm.

           “There we go, there we go,” Mr. Stark murmured, rubbing up and down his arm. “Keep looking at me. Do you remember what color my eyes are?”

           The arc reactor was the same shade of blue as the Soldier’s eyes, he was blinded by azure, azure everything. Cobalt blood and icy walls, a disabled heater in December because he wasn’t worth wasting power on.

           His feet stung, he had nothing else to do but run on the walls, on the ceiling, laps and laps like a hand around a clock.  _ How many days did he have again? _

           He wanted to run, he wanted to run so badly, but Mr. Stark’s eyes wouldn’t let him.

           Protect, serve, obey, and now Mr. Stark needed him to listen.

           Mr. Stark needed him to  _ stay. _

           “Coffee,” Peter croaked. “Coffee-colored.” 

           “There we go, Pete,” Mr. Stark smiled. “Do you remember what color your eyes are?”

           His voice sounded hoarse and desperate when he whispered, “Chocolate.”

           “Do you want a hug?” Mr. Stark asked, clearly trying his best to get Peter off of the wall he had attached to. “You’d have to come down to get it.”

           Peter dropped down, and stayed. Stayed for Mr. Stark.

           “Coffee,” Peter mumbled into Mr. Stark’s shirt when he was bundled tightly into the man’s arms. “Coffee and chocolate and broccoli,” he echoed. 

           “Coffee and chocolate and broccoli,” Mr. Stark agreed. “Remember?”

_            He never forgot, even though Mommy wanted him to. _

           “And… your arc reactor,” Peter managed to get out. “Your arc reactor, too.”

           Mr. Stark pressed Peter even closer to his body, and Peter tapped at his chest, right in the center of his ribcage, over the man’s heart. “Why’s that, Petey?” Mr. Stark sounded confused.

           “Blue,” Peter explained. 

_            Blue eyes that also never forgot, no matter how many years they’d seen. That was why he left, the Soldier had a family category too. He was just leaving to remember. _

           “Blue?”

           Peter’s chip vibrated when he took a deep breath, his fingers tingling with false warmth. Frost bite that wasn’t really there, because he wasn’t really trapped, but he still felt like it. “B-blue.”

           Mr. Stark put a hand right over his chip, and Peter’s words caught in his throat. 

           There were so many colors, too many colors, Peter could taste them on his tongue, in his throat, clogging his nose and filling his ears, so instead he closed his eyes. 

           “Do you want to talk about it?”

           He inhaled through his nose, and exhaled through his mouth, gripping Mr. Stark’s skin so hard that the billionaire bruised. He was afraid of Mr. Stark leaving too, just like the Winter Soldier.

_            Mr. Barnes. _

           Peter, Pete, Petey was still figuring out how to be 14, how to be a person, how to  _ want  _ something, but for Mr. Stark? He would do anything, including try to talk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i lovv u guys so muchh and i hhhhh   
> i love u bicth   
> i aint never gonna stop loving u bicth   
> <3!!!!!  
> AND STAY HYDRATED OR ELSE ILL YEET A GLASS OF WATER AT U, ITS IMPORTANT TO STAY HEALTHY


	27. Protocol: Let It Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAA good news guys! i have a wonderful beta now, her name is Kenzie, so hopefully u'll be seeing less mistakes in the text of this story :D she's really helped me be more productive, i love her with all my heart. Thanks Kenz!!!
> 
> also i don't wanna talk about FFH because i know a lot of people still haven't seen it, but I saw it at noon on the 2nd and man it was an emotional rollercoaster. i thought the move was really good, what did y'all think?
> 
> today's the day where Peter finally gets some goddamn help and i hope y'all enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it.
> 
> TW for description of isolation and emotional manipulation (gaslighting and goalpost moving, specifically.) please stay safe!!

           Mr. Stark sat with him on the floor, across from him but not far away. It would be comforting if he didn’t have that look in his eyes, that look that made him impossible to read. Peter couldn’t help but feel vulnerable, and he despised that feeling with every ounce of his being.

           But Mr. Stark was his superior, and Peter was a good boy, so he did what he was told. 

           His voice was barely audible, but Mr. Stark was a very good listener. 

⎊

           Peter’s voice was crackly and quiet, and if someone was listening from the outside it would sound like a confession of something like a sin, when really, to Tony, Peter sounded like a robot. Maybe not metallic and cold, but certainly rehearsed, like he remembered every little bit. 

           And though the kid talked fast, each word lingered like a wound on Tony’s heart. 

           “When I was… y-young,” Peter started, “I didn’t take to loud noises t-too well, my senses were still in the c-coding stage. It was l-like it was developing hearing. They needed to in-inject me with something every week, t-to make sure I didn’t fail.” 

           Tony had to resist reaching out to Peter and telling him that nothing he could ever do would be a failure. God, when had he become so sentimental and touchy? Just a few months ago he didn’t even let people hand him things, and now he was hugging and comforting another person. It was jarring. 

           “T-they thought that he…” Peter balled his hands into fists and chewed on his bottom lip, obviously not knowing whether to name the man he was speaking about or whether to let Tony figure it out. 

           “I know who you’re talking about, bud,” Tony soothed. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.” 

           “They thought he would be a b-better teacher for me,” Peter carried on without a thought of what Tony had said. “H-he taught me how to shoot.” 

_            People  _ went unspoken.  _ Barnes had taught Peter to kill.  _

           Tony could feel his chest tightening.

           “I d-didn’t like the sound… the sound of the gun,” Peter’s breathing evened out, and he took a moment to collect himself. Tony was impressed by how together he seemed, but he quickly tossed that idea away. Peter was doing something he had probably never done before, Tony should be treating the situation like glass instead of like a scientist.

           “And h-he calmed me down  _ better,  _ I think w-was the word they used. He calmed me down  _ better.  _ So h-he was my training moderator, f-for a little while.” Peter pressed his hands against his knees, and Tony winced for him. He could already see the bruises that would form in a couple minutes. Peter’s fists were whiteknuckled and unstable, his hands shaking. “And I–” Peter hiccuped, “–I d-don’t know what’s  _ wrong  _ with me because I– I  _ trusted him, _ sir.” 

           Tony actually reached out, but Peter drew back and hugged himself. He settled on putting a hand on his already-blackening knee. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Pete.”

           “But I’m not  _ supposed to,  _ s-sir,” Peter stressed. “It’s an error, I’m mal-malfunctioning and it was supposed to be c-corrected all those years a-ago.” Peter hid his face, dragging his trembling fingers down and settling on folding his hands in his lap. “W-when they– when they put me in that c-cage, they told me to forget, and I  _ couldn’t.” _

           When Peter said the word cage, a hot spark of pure resentment lit in Tony, and if he could hate the vile man that Peter called his  _ administrator  _ any more, he did. 

           “And I  _ failed,  _ M-Mr. Stark,” Peter looked at him with pleading eyes, searching for a hint of disgust. “I d-didn’t deserve a second chance, but they g-gave it to me anyways.” He wet his lips, and Tony could see the kid restraining against piercing his skin, and Tony was so grateful that they were slowly weaning him off of that little habit. 

           Peter squeezed his eyes shut and hunched his shoulders, a visible chill crawling up his small body. His voice was so quiet, had Tony been any farther away he wouldn’t have heard it.

           “And it was so cold,” Peter whispered. “And I couldn’t sleep. And I was a-alone, and it was so  _ quiet.” _

_            Isolation. _

           “And I-I counted, sir,” Peter looked up at him again, and the kid really did look small. Sometimes Tony forgot, he forgot because Peter could keep up with him, because Peter could throw him across the room if he really wanted to. Because Peter tried to hard to  _ not  _ be small, that sometimes he wasn’t. 

           He felt like he had this child in the palm of his hand, now, tiny and fragile and all Tony wanted to do was to make sure he was never cold again. 

           “And it– it was 28 days, sir.” Peter was saying  _ sir  _ like a coping mechanism, something to distract from the fact that 28 days was 28 days too many. Tony wanted to tell him that the only number acceptable, paired with this context, was the number 0, but Tony didn’t think that Peter would believe him. 

           Peter’s face scrunched up, and it looked too close to pain for Tony’s liking. A sound, not unlike that of a shrill buzzer, ricocheted against the walls, and Peter flinched hard.

           He still didn’t want Tony to touch him, though, even though all the man wanted to do was make him warm. 

           “I don’t even know what  _ Dad _ means,” Peter sobbed. “T-they n-never told me, and I still called him it– the Soldier.”

           Tony froze.

           Peter scrubbed at his eyes, curling into a ball and putting his head between his knees. “A-and I didn’t– I did-didn’t want to blame him, but I d-d– oh, I–” he choked on the words. “I can’t even do what I was m-made for, I’m no b-better than trash.”

           And then Tony shattered.

           He reached out to the kid, who tried to pull away, but Tony kept his hand on his back. “Kid, look at me.”

           Peter shook his head, and took a deep, rattling breath that was cut off by another sob.

           “Peter.” He shook him gently, but Peter might as well have been deaf. “I want you to look at me.”

           His head lifted, and Tony used his knuckles to lightly turn his head towards him.

           “You,” Tony’s voice was surprisingly trembly, like the legs of a newborn fawn. “You, mister, are one of the  _ best things  _ to ever happen to my poor soul. And I swear to god, it hurts, Pete.”

           Tony could hear Peter’s swallow. 

           “It hurts me to know that you think like that, because you don’t deserve any of that, you hear?” 

           Peter still looked unconvinced, his mouth twisting into all sorts of shapes in order to stay quiet.

           Tony shook him again, “Are you listening, bud? You’re not trash, you’re an amazing kid and I’m so glad I met you. I’m  _ so  _ glad.” 

           Peter opened his mouth, but Tony cut him off. “None of that  _ sorry  _ bullshit either, kid. You have nothing to be sorry about, if anything the world owes  _ you.  _ And I want you to cut it out with that sir business, too, alright? You and me are equals, and it’s feeding my ego.” Tony laughed awkwardly and tensed, but loosened when he heard an equally awkward laugh from Peter. 

           “Y-yes, s-s-mm Mr. Stark,” the kid struggled. “I’ll do my b-best.”

           “That’s not an order, either.” Tony stood up and sat down next to Peter, pulling him into his side and situating him underneath his arm. He threaded his fingers through his hair, and Pete stiffened before practically melting against his hand. “We’re in each other’s corners, yeah? You and me and Aunt Scary, and maybe Rhodey when he explains himself for being so late. He hasn't texted me or nothing, but I trust him to be here when we need it.” 

           Peter sniffed, still wiping away tears.

           “Pep, too. I think she likes you, she'll probably wring an answer out of Rhodes. And you know what, kiddo?”

           He poked Peter for an answer, only to get a weak laugh and a “What?” in response.

           “Barnes,” Tony massaged Peter’s scalp when he went rigid. “Barnes is definitely right with us there, too. He was probably the first.” 

           Peter shook his head again, and Tony protested by saying “Yes! He’s the one who told me to give you a name, you know? He really cares about you, Peter.”

           “Some– sometimes I  _ wish  _ I forgot about him, s-Mr. Stark,” Peter admitted, voice breaking. “But I can’t, and I– I don’t think I’ll ever be a-able to. He l- _ left.”  _

           “He’s not going to, now.” Tony promised. “He’s about as stubborn as I am, the prick. And I’m not going anywhere.”

           “It  _ hurts,” _ Peter breathed, “It hurts so much.” He curled his fingers into his palms, and reached out for Tony’s other hand.

           “And you’re allowed to hurt,” Tony said slowly. God, is this how Pepper felt when he had a panic attack? Is this how Rhodey felt in MIT when Tony couldn’t go a day without drowning himself in alcohol? Were they always this concerned? 

           “I–” Peter gasped, covering his face and leaning forwards. All of his tears had run out, but that didn’t mean that it was any less painful for Tony to watch. “I’m scared, I– I don’t know how to be  _ anything else,  _ Mr. Stark. I’m s-supposed to be a Weapon. I’m supposed to p-protect you, and I  _ can’t  _ when I’m like  _ this _ .” 

           “Like what?” Tony asked, and if his words were shapes they would be circles, soft and without harsh edges. Small circles.

           Thinking in shapes and colors was a lot easier than thinking in words, he just wasn't used to it, he understood that now.

           “Like… like,” Peter tucked himself into a rollie-pollie ball, sniffing. “Me.”

           “I like you.” 

           “But everytime I d-do something good, it’s not enough.  _ My best isn’t good enough _ . Y-you don’t deserve some useless whore.” Peter’s fingers curled up, until he was digging his knuckles into his eye sockets. It sounded like he was repeating something, repeating something that had been  _ said to him,  _ and Tony’s blood boiled. “And he’s always r-right, he’s n-never been wrong, I’m just c-crazy, I’m–”

           “Peter,” Tony interrupted sternly. “That’s an abuse tactic, a lot of tactics, in fact.”

           Peter shrugged him off. “It’s not abuse if it’s  _ true.  _ You need– _ ” _

           “I need  _ you,”  _ Tony squeezed him. “I need you, the way you  _ want to be. _ I don’t need whoever your administrator needs, because even if he was the smartest man in the world, which is  _ moi  _ by the way,” he gestured dramatically at himself, “he’s really fucking dumb, alright? Whatever he’s trying to do, goalpost moving and gaslighting is never okay.”

           Peter mumbled something unintelligible, and Tony asked him to repeat it. 

           “He’s my a-administrator,” Peter whispered. “He raised me, and he fed me, and I love him so much, Mr. Stark, but I don’t know why he’s the one that makes it hurt when he s-said that he loved me too.” 

           Tony leaned down so that his head was next to Peter’s, pushing away his hands with the arm that was wrapped around his shoulders. “Kid,” he said simply, “even I know that’s not love.”

           Peter’s watery doe eyes stared right through his soul when he mouthed  _ What is, then? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all: Peter is the ultimate baby, protect at all costs  
> my notes, staring at me through the screen: lol u dug ur own grave, kid 
> 
> also, it's still gonna take a while before he's okay with Bucky being Bucky. i want them to hug as much as u guys do, but alas, my dumb ass has decided upon a slowburn
> 
> thank yall so much for the kudos and comments, even though i'm probably eventually gonna get shanked in my sleep. still grateful, lol. <3 <3
> 
> WATER IS IMPORTANT. HAIL HYDRATION. have a nice rest of ur week c:


	28. Protocol: Different

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's upperino :D
> 
> i know we just got back on schedule but parkner week is a thing thats happening on august 2nd and i would love to participate, so i'm not sure if i'll have enough time to write this and all 10 oneshots in one week. sorry about that, but this is an important chapter so hopefully it keeps the tension high?
> 
> tw for panic attack, pls message me if any other tw needs to be added to this specific chapter!!
> 
> pls enjoy reading!!!!

           They started out talking small. About things, things that Peter wasn’t used to talking about. Things which had unfamiliar points, foreign edges, curves and bends and colors that hurt to think about but were smooth on his tongue. Things like how he was, what he was thinking about, whether he had a preference to a specific food when all of it was better than cold oatmeal and bread. He wasn’t going to pick favorites among gifts, he was grateful for every meal and made sure to thank Mr. Stark, and tell the cook that it was delicious.

           This new dynamic with Mr. Stark was different but nice, a pattern with most things here, he realized. Different was starting to change from  _ bad and scary  _ to  _ scary, but not all that bad.  _ Mr. Stark treated him less like glass and more like he treated Miss Romanoff. He liked that.

_            He was learning how to like things. _

           An example of the new treatment was how Mr. Stark directly told him his observations. The first time Mr. Stark called him a liar was when he said that he hadn’t stayed up all night working on the program, the second time was when he said that he was fine. 

           And fine was also such a strange, colorful word, with an undefinable shape. It didn’t fit in a pre-existing category, so he shoved it in the category of things that weren’t meant in categories. Words like safe, stay, and love were in there, using up his data and taking up far too many thoughts, and now the weird word  _ fine  _ was tucked neatly in between the promises and questions. 

           It wasn’t just the talking, either. Mr. Stark never really seemed to be concerned about words until now, but things were changing and it left him frozen. 

_            Chains, hands wrapped around bars, so cold it could be winter, and blue, blue, blue he couldn’t forget.  _

           He didn’t talk to Miss Romanoff much, now. His vocal cords were run raw enough with Mr. Stark, he just listened from underneath the desk, with a new chair pulled up in front of him. They had finally cleaned up the remains of the chair he had smashed, leaving a sizeable dent in the wall.

           Peter thought that she talked enough for both of them, anyways. She didn’t seem to talk much outside of this room, according to Mr. Stark. She was like him, a spy. Silent, secretive, observant. 

           He told Mr. Stark, and he just smiled sadly and said that she was like him in more ways than just that. He started a list after that, using what remaining lined paper there was after he had filled the lines with black ink and the same 10 Words. It was a list of similarities, and after a second thought, it was another list, the opposite of the first. Differences.

           He thought that the first couple items in each column were rather simple and elementary, though they made perfect sense to him. Mr. Stark added a couple suggestions every other time he looked at it, smiling at him and complimenting him. Unexpectedly, Peter realized that the list helped him understand Miss Romanoff beyond their similarities. So he started a list for Mr. Stark, too, and that definitely amused the man. He was glad that Mr. Stark was happy, though Peter still felt bad for being the reason why he couldn’t leave the room.

           Being alone terrified him, it felt too close to being suffocated under a ton of sand. He never really knew what death felt like until he thought Mr. Stark was gone for good. The feeling was the bad sort of different.

           Peter was getting good at giving him a bit of privacy, though. It was in his nature to absorb every bit of information as soon as it was handed to him, so it was hard to tune out personal conversations over the phone or in the doorway. Mr. Stark seemed to be getting increasingly worried about someone named Rhodey, someone that sounded vaguely familiar but not enough to put a face to a name. 

           Apparently, Rhodey was supposed to arrive the way the Pepper woman had. He was supposed to arrive yesterday.

           That stressed Mr. Stark out, and in return, made Peter’s senses spike painfully whenever the man moved too quickly.

           He hoped Mr. Stark could find some peace, but as Peter adjusted to things that were seemingly normal for everyone else, that seemed to constantly slip through the billionaire’s grasp.

           Mr. Stark was still a god, in his eyes, but now he was a human god. Troubled, flawed, but immortal in the way his administrator was. 

           That thought was confirmed when Peter found out who Pepper was, and Mr. Stark found out why Rhodey was late.

           The ginger-haired woman looked panicked, standing in the doorway with her hand up like she expected the door to answer to her touch instead of her voice. Her eyes were wide, blue eyes, Peter noticed. Blue, but more of a muted, calm and greyish sort of blue. Not like winter.

           “Pep?” Mr. Stark said, concern dripping from his words. Peter had heard that voice before.

           The Pepper woman, who he’d definitely seen before, was Virginia Potts and CEO. Peter wondered why Mr. Stark called her Pepper when that obviously wasn’t her name. 

           Her voice sounded strangled, and she hardly noticed Peter moving to Mr. Starks side when she choked out, “You need to watch the news. Now.”

           That was the first time that he was alone in a long time, when Mr. Stark urgently left with Miss Potts, left without nearly a second thought. Their fingers brushed, and Peter’s hand remained outstretched even when the door slammed shut, the sound echoing in the empty room.

           It was fine for a couple minutes, okay and  _ silent and too bright _ , and then his knees slammed to the floor. He gasped and clutched at his chest, wrinkling his nose and twisting his mouth so that he didn’t let the tears fall.

           He was fine.

           He was  _ fine. _

           He covered a body-wracking sob, and he couldn’t inhale the air back in, so he choked on the lack of oxygen. He let the chip in his back buzz, the sound was better than nothing.

_            Mr. Stark wasn’t there to call him a liar, so for now he was fine. _

_            “Peter,”  _ FRIDAY says softly,  _ “you seem to be in great distress. Do you want me to activate Spiderling Protocol 1?”  _

           He inhaled, and the air tasted clean and good, but he couldn’t get it out again. His lungs were going to explode. “Just–” he gagged, “Just give me something to listen to,  _ please.”  _

           He vaguely registered the song– Mr. Barnes’ favorite– before black spots appeared in his vision and he vomited on the floor.

⎊

_            “Breaking news at 1:30 this evening. War Machine, piloted by Colonel James Rhodes was spotted over Tennessee late this morning, and we all wished him safe travels. However, those prayers seem to be in vain.” _

           Over Tennessee, over Tennessee, he was coming from Texas, at the speed he was going he would’ve reached Tennessee on schedule if he had left the day he was supposed to. What was holding him back? Why hadn't he contacted him? Tony's knuckles went white.

_            “At around 1:15 today something seems to have shot the Colonel out of the air! This footage was taken by a witness from the ground. Warning: the video may be disturbing to sensitive audiences. The audio has been modified.” _

           God damnit if only he had the Quinjet, he could’ve flown over and picked him up. But the Quinjet was off-world, and he couldn’t contact it without SHIELD jumping down his throat.

            He sucked in a sharp inhale when War Machine faltered in the sky and Rhodey dodged some thin projectile, it looked like some modified version of anti-aircraft missiles.

           The tapping of Steve's foot from behind the counter of the kitchen was too goddamn loud. He hadn't even noticed everyone else was there before he had started.

           The cameraman tried to pan the camera to see where the missiles were coming from, but the source was hidden by terrain. 

           Tony thought he would rip the fabric of his jeans. 

           Rhodey turned to make sure the missile was still soaring past him into the empty sky, and Tony lurched forwards when another went straight into his back, and suddenly it was the airport fight all over again. The cameraman was obviously startled and started running, and the adjusted audio covered the extent of the noise, but what was left remaining suggested that it was a powerful explosive.

           Rhodey tried to catch himself before he fell out of sight, and Tony lifted his fists to his mouth, biting on his thumb.

           War Machine should've notified him of something as serious as that, War Machine  _should've caught Rhodey._

_            “This footage was taken just outside Nashville, Tennessee. A search and rescue team has already been deployed, though no results have shown themselves in the last 10 minutes. We pray for Colonel Rhodes’ health, and hope he’s safe. If you have any information or want to help, please contact the number at–” _

           Tony slammed the off button on the remote, feeling like he had just ingested poison. “I have a call to make.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i want to see my littol boy
> 
> h e r e h e c o m e s
> 
> HYDRATE URSELVES, LOVE URSELVES i love yall lots pls have a nice week <3


	29. Protocol: Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im literally so sorry for going so long without an update. i kicked my own ass by procrastinating on literally everything and then stressing about not getting stuff done. hhhhhn and then motivation went down the toilet because Disney is being greedy (whats new) and thats very Distressing™ because my only comfort character thats canonically alive might just get hecking deleted. Spider-Man 3's continuing it's tradition of getting screwed over, i guess. 
> 
> ANYWAYS we're back on track!!! hi y'all!!!! :D these past weeks have kind of told me that a weekly update schedule might be a tad unrealistic when i also want to work on my endgame rewrite, but i've done it so far and i'll keep trying, lol. 
> 
> TW self-harm and mentions of panic attacks. please stay safe!!!!
> 
> enjoy!!!!!

           He didn’t know how long he’d been curled in the corner of the ceiling, back to the wall and head in between his knees. 

           It feels safe there, as safe as he can be alone

_            He could be locked up any minute. He could be thrown away. _

           Fresh burns littered his shoulders and arms, the tips of his fingers feeling particularly painful. His skin was red and raw and he had thrown his shirt off because the cloth felt too much like burlap and it  _ hurt.  _

           It’d been a long time–  _ had it been a long time?–  _ since he’d been terrified 

           How soft had he gotten?

           A new song came on, ending the silence left in the other’s wake. He took a stuttering breath, the air thick with isolation. The singer’s voices helped stave off the panic, but it didn’t get rid of the paranoia.

           His voice felt heavy and loud, his throat tore with every word. He sunk his nails into his arms to distract himself from the pain of speaking. 

           “Peter, Peter, Peter,” he whispered like a chant. He curled up tighter, the air in the room was so  _ cold _ . 

           “Peter, Peter, Peter.” He despised the tears at the edges of his eyes. 

           He  _ despised  _ the way his chest felt like it was getting too tight, the way the walls were closing in. 

           A drop of cobalt hit the floor, and he dragged his nails down his arm, feeling the raised ridges of old scars. 

           “Peter, Peter,” he croaked. “I’m— I’m a person.” 

_            Did he mean that? Was he really? _

           “I’m a person, I— I’m P-Peter.” 

_            Was he just lying to himself? _

           He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. Mr. Stark wouldn’t leave.  _ He said he’d stay.  _ He— he’d stay, he didn’t leave.

           “I’m Peter,” he smoothed the hair on his arms, flinching when the raw tips of his fingers traveled over the new burn marks, flowering across pale skin. “Peter, Peter, Peter.” 

           The music helped, what it helped with he didn’t know, but it helped. And a loud, violent part of him said that it shouldn’t, because that was from Barnes. That was from the Soldier.

_            “Держи пистолет вот так.” _

_            “Это?” _

           He bit his lip, tapping his fingers on his forearms to the slow beat of the song. He took another raspy breath. “I’m P-Peter, my e-eyes are chocolate-colored. I–” he sucked in air, trying not to sob. He didn’t think he could physically handle it if he started crying again.

           His chip buzzed, and he let out a sharp cry, the acute pain travelling down his spine and through his shoulder blades.  _ Not again, not again, please. _

_            “Peter, I am notifying the nearest trusted individual of your condition,”  _ FRIDAY said. Peter was sure that the concern was just a program, a string of 1’s and 0’s that couldn’t care less about him.

           “I– I want M-Mr. Stark,” he mumbled, flinching when the music increased in volume after FRIDAY stopped talking. 

_            I want Mr. Stark to stay. _

_            “I’m afraid that Mr. Stark is unavailable,”  _ FRIDAY seemingly regretfully informed him.

           “B-but I–” he stuttered, inhaling through his nose. He could feel every tear in his skin, blisters boiling on his skin, old scars reopening. It was familiar, but that didn’t mean that he was fond of it. It hurt, he hurt. 

           He should’ve gotten used to it.

           “I w-want Mr. Stark,” he sobbed, sounding wholly like an entitled child. “H-he’s safe, he’s safe, he’s  _ safe.” _

_            “Do you not feel safe, Peter?”  _ FRIDAY’s programmed tone was curious, not rhetorical, or threatening, like that of his administrator.

           Lies bubbled on his lips, but Mr. Stark could always see through them. He was benevolent like that. He shook his head, swallowing down another sob. “Mm-mm.”

_            “What can I do to make you feel safe?” _

           He picked at another scab, toes curling when tearing at his skin didn’t hurt nearly as much as it used to. “M-Mr. Stark.”

_            “I’m afraid I cannot do that, Peter. Miss Parker is on the premises, would you like to speak to her?” _

           “I ‘don c-care,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Just w-want Mr. Stark.” 

_            “I will let her know,”  _ FRIDAY concluded.  _ “The ‘Best of the 30s Playlist’ has ended, Peter. Do you want me to restart it?” _

           He nodded, and although Mr. Stark always responded verbally to the AI, FRIDAY acquiesced nonetheless. 

⎊

_>_             ** _WarMachineVII.OSx,[locator,{GPSvii}]_** _is_ _unavailable._

 _>_                        _Retrying..._

 _>_                                   ** _WarMachineVII.OSx,[locator,{GPSvii}]_** _is_ _unavailable._

 _>_             _Find_ ** _WarMachineVII.OSx,[locator,{GPSvii}]_** _within these parameters…_

 _>_                        _Parameters could not be found._

 _>            _ _Accessing_ ** _WarMachineVII.OSx_** _…_

 _>_                        _Accessing…_

 _>_                                   _An unexpected error has occurred. Try again._

 _>_             _Accessing_ ** _WarMachineVII.OSx,[communicator,{108fq7334}]_** _..._

 _>_                        ** _WarMachineVII.OSx,[communicator,{108fq7334}]_** _accessed._

 _>_                                   _Playing audio…_

 _>_                                              ** _[UNIDENTIFIED_ENTITY#1]_** _“God, okay. This thing is dead weight.”_

 _>_                                              ** _[UNIDENTIFIED_ENTITY#2]_** _“Yeah, they’re super heavy when they’re not in the air.”_

 _>_                                                         _Identifying [UNIDENTIFIED_ENTITY#1]..._

 _>_                                                                    _Person identified. Access file? [ Yes. / No. ]_

 _>_                                                                               _> Yes._

 _>_                                            **_[UNIDENTIFIED_ENTITY#1]_**

 _>                                                                              _ _James Rupert Rhodes M / 51 [ read more ]_

 _>_                                                                                          _Closed file._

_>_                                                          _ Identifying [UNIDENTIFIED_ENTITY#2]... _

_>_                                                                    _Person identified. Access file? [ Yes. / No. ]_

 _>_                                                                               _> Yes._

 _>_                                                                **_[UNIDENTIFIED_ENTITY#2]_**

 _>_                                                                               _Harley David Keener M / 15 [ read more ]_

 _>_                                                                                          _Closed file._

_>_              _ Accessing  _ **_WarMachineVII.OSx,[condition,{powerp%}]_ ** _... _

_>_                        _Running diagnostics…_

 _>_                                   _ **ArcReactorWMVII** is offline._

 _>                                  _ _**LBackThrusterWMVII** is offline._

 _>_                                   _ **RBackThrusterWMVII** is offline._

 _>_                                   _ **RHandThrusterWMVII** is offline._

 _>_                                   _ **LHandThrusterWMVII** is online. Repulsor capacity **67%**. Disconnected from mainframe._

 _>_                                 _**HUDWMVII** is online. Helmet capacity **8%**._

 _>_                                   _Severe damage to the right side of_ ** _WarMachineVII.OSx_** _, heavy explosives used. Total power **2%**._

 _>_                                   _Damage to the left side of_ ** _WarMachineVII.OSx_** _, heavy explosives used. Total power **23%**._

 _>_                                              _Total power **25%**. ETA **6** **:02:88** before system shutdown. _

⎊

           At first, Tony felt guilty. Guilty for a lot of things, for leaving Peter there alone without installing their protocol first. For asking May to just hold on a little bit when she called, stressed out about having to comfort Peter, who was determined to take about twenty steps backwards from all of the work they were doing. Guilty for telling Bucky to cut out asking to see Peter, for telling him he’d be bad for the kid. Guilty for putting FRIDAY on mute and for not putting more contingencies in place because  _ he let Rhodey fall again _ . For yelling at Pepper when she tried to calm him down, for yelling at Steve when he tried to defend Barnes.

           Tony felt guilty for a lot of things. And then he got angry at himself.

           And then he cried– he actually cried– when he heard Rhodey’s voice on the audio replay. There were tears. 

           He’d certainly had to deal with a lot of tears this past month and a half, but it was nearly always from someone other than himself. Peter, Pepper.

           He still hadn’t watched that video, that video of the Reese family. He promised Pep that he would, but it felt too similar to the bunker in Siberia. He’d seen the black and white security camera footage and promptly had a small panic attack, his chest hurting in ways it hadn’t hurt in a long time. He had reached up to smooth the skin there, and was met with cold, humming metal. 

           He should talk to her about that. Maybe have Pepper there with him, just in case.

           He should do a lot of things.

           He took a deep breath, making sure his chest expanded fully, before exhaling again. His breath was shaky, and he half expected to be met without oxygen and the blackness of space, but instead he was surrounded by the blue of holograms and the familiar noise of Dum-E beeping at something in the corner.

           “Alright,” he whispered. He should really– he should really talk to someone. He’d been so preoccupied with making sure that Peter wouldn’t break that he’d forgotten that he wasn’t entirely whole either. “Alright, okay. I’m okay. FRIDAY, volume 30 percent.”

_            “Hello, Boss.” _

           Tony ran a hand through his hair, slumping forward in the cushioned spinny-chair. He looked at the oil and sweat that clung to his palm after he removed it. “Yeah, yeah. Hi, baby girl. I’m gonna need you to look through my previous contacts– deleted, unsaved, or otherwise– and keep an eye on May and the kiddo for me, can you do that?”

_            “Of course. Who are you looking for?”  _ FRIDAY was smart, FRIDAY was nice.

           FRIDAY reminded him of the half-finished AI he’d started for Peter before he started helping him with the newly-dubbed  _ CCB _ protocol. FRIDAY reminded him of a lot of things, with her pleasant Irish accent and tendencies to call him formal but affectionate nicknames.

           FRIDAY reminded him of JARVIS.

           “I’m looking for…” Tony puffed out the breath he was holding, laughing a little at the ridiculousness of this whole situation, “an H. Keener.”

_            “Got it.”   _ FRIDAY paused, but it seemed more like a hesitation than a start-and-stop. “ _ Miss Potts just contacted me telling you to get some rest, Boss. I think that would be a good idea.” _

           “I can’t,” Tony forced out, feeling like he was talking through his teeth. “Not before I find Rhodey and get him back safely.”

_            “You sound like Peter,”  _ FRIDAY observed quietly. 

           Tony froze, pressing his lips together until his mouth was white. 

_            “He never says that he can’t do things, but he thinks it. I can tell by the way he moves. I find it amusing that you reprimand him for behavior you display yourself.” _

           “Did you just call me a hypocrite?” There was nothing accusatory in Tony’s voice, just something a tad surprised.

_            “Perhaps,”  _ FRIDAY responded cheekily.  _ “You spend most nights more worried for Peter than for your own rest. Miss Parker seems to be doing well with him, he is not in severe distress anymore.” _

           Tony closed the holograms, leaving the lab in complete darkness aside from the light leaking in from the hallway and through the glass door. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. I’ll sleep.”

_            “Will you, though?” _

           “I can try. You know how I am at this whole sleeping... thing.”  He told himself that taking a break wasn’t giving up when the lab door slid shut, and the padlock he kept it secure with beeped.

           Tony Stark didn’t just give up, because he kept his promises.

           At least, he tried. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i thought it would be good to see inside Tony's head. poor boye. 
> 
> also Rhodey and Harley are a dream team dont @ me. they can make fun of Tony from 2 different angles.
> 
> Translations: 
> 
> 1\. Держи пистолет вот так. (Hold the gun like this.)  
> 2\. Это? (This?)
> 
> STAY HYDRATED AND FED NERDS ILYSM AND THANK U FOR UR SUPPORT!!!!!!!!! <3 <3 <3 <3


	30. Protocol: Lost and Found

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its 4 PST and i just realized ive been watching this video on loop for 40 minutes https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g56l_eg76x0
> 
> oops i guess
> 
> no TWs today!!! this is a big chapter :D 
> 
> enjoy!

           Harley Keener was 11 years old when Tony Stark broke into his garage and demanded he buy him a tuna sandwich. His father’s absence was still raw, and he still held a little contempt for his baby sister for taking away all of his mother’s attention, but contrary to Tony’s teasing remarks, he did grow up. Maybe a little too much, though that was no one’s business but his own. 

           He silently thanked Tony every day for the then-new now-old tech in his garage, and even though it was 4 or so years old it was still leaps and bounds above what he could buy himself in measly old Rose Hill. Tony really only texted him on his birthdays, and Harley knew it was just his abandonment issues talking, but it filled a little bit of the void when the day stopped being as special as it was when he was 5. Even though he didn’t have much contact with Tony, he didn’t hold anything against him. Tony didn’t know that he knew about the college fund and the on-hold internship position, but he did. And he was grateful for all of it.

           Nonetheless, it stung a little when he texted the man and he didn’t text back. But that was fine. He was no one special, he was just Harley.

           And then War Machine fell out of the sky somewhere above Nashville, landed smack dab a couple miles out of Rose Hill, Tennessee, and Harley found it all by himself, he was something more than just Harley for a couple hours. He felt bad about lying to Abbie and his mother, but it felt infinitely better to help Colonel Rhodes.

           War Machine was remarkably similar to the Iron Man suit, with just a few tweaks. It was heavier and thus required more power to fly properly, so there were multiple sources near the places that used the most energy, and that was the issue.

           There was enough power to fly about half of the suit. And the other half was essentially dead weight. It felt like half a million pounds of empty, useless suit dragging through the inch of snow.

           How come superhero business always knocked at his door during winter? Why couldn’t some crisis visit Tennessee during summer, ‘ya know, when he didn’t have to stress about War Machine in his garage during the English class he was already failing? 

           Just when counting the bumps on the ceiling was getting boring, his phone vibrated on the small side table. He shot up and stabilized the lamp. He’d had too many incidents in which some random telemarketer called him at 1 AM and the wobbly lamp smashed on the ground. 

 

 **Messages** **(** _9 unread_ **)**

 

 **Mechanic** _ >>> _ **Harley Davidson**

 

           M: Hey kid. I hear you kidnapped my Rhodey-bear. I’m hurt :( 

 

           Harley rubbed the exhaustion out of his eyes and grinned.

❖

           “I brought a game,” Miss Parker said, long fingers reaching into a cloth bag and pulling out a box. 

           Peter stiffened, shoulders hunching. Games looked a lot different in the facility.

           “It’s called checkers. I would’ve brought chess, but I’m afraid I don’t have the attention span for that.” Miss Parker smiled, embarrassed. “Me and my husband used to play it.”

           Peter wetted his lips with his tongue and exhaled strongly. His vocal cords felt frozen, a stark contrast to when he was around Mr. Stark and Miss Romanoff. 

           He didn’t quite feel safe speaking, but he did feel safer than before.

           He still wanted Mr. Stark, but he was afraid of aggravating Miss Parker by asking FRIDAY for it. 

           His senses were a low buzz in the back of his head, making the hairs of his neck stand up. Miss Parker felt… unnatural.

           Unnatural was the wrong word, he reprimanded himself. It wasn’t correct at all, but it was the first thing that came to mind. She was familiar, but his senses didn’t go off around things like that. Warm and open, his senses didn’t buzz around things that were warm and open. Things like Miss Parker. She was a contradiction, she was familiar but unfamiliar and his head hurt trying to remember her, remember _why,_ and therefore she was unnatural.

           He’d used the word wrong, but it was right. 

           His breath felt warm against his forearm.

           “Do you know how to play checkers?” Miss Parker asked. Peter shook his head.

           Miss Parker clicked her tongue, and he flinched. She probably hadn’t even known she’d done it, and damn his hearing, he could hear her heart beating like a rabbit’s. She was nervous around him.

           He made her nervous.

           He supposed that made sense. He was a weapon, after all. 

           Dangerous. 

           He still felt horrible about the bruises he always gave Mr. Stark. The man pretended his skin was tough enough not to color, but Peter knew better. He should apologize for it some day, maybe it would make him come back. 

           “Did I do something?” Miss Parker’s voice was quiet.

           Peter burrowed his nose into his arms, breathing in the scent of new skin and the weird-smelling soap in the shower. He shrugged, something he’d seen Miss Romanoff and Mr. Stark do frequently. He mimicked them, feeling weird doing something so informal. It wasn’t a verbal reply, it was indeed very strange not speaking. If he failed to answer a question before, he’d been hit. No blows ever came for him in the Tower, though. 

           The shrug felt appropriate.

           “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “You know, I value transparency between me and my patients, but it’s hard with all of this legal-SHIELD-nazi stuff going on, you know? It’s complicated.”

           Peter nodded, eyes trained on Miss Parker’s hands. She was laying small disks onto a board full of alternating red and black squares, and the pattern clicked in his head after a few milliseconds. 

           “It’s all so confusing,” she admitted, sounding almost ashamed for not understanding something she probably didn’t have nearly enough information about, “and now I’m here with you, and it scares me, sometimes.”

           Peter sucked in a sharp breath, surprise gripping him. Her rabbit heartbeat quickened, and he could hear her shallow breaths as she stared up at him.

           “I scare you?” He hated how small he sounded, small and dejected and _sorry._

           Miss Parker chewed on her bottom lip. “Yes,” she said bluntly.

           She wasn’t nervous, she was _afraid._

_She was afraid, just like Peter was sometimes._

           “People like you can be scared?” Peter asked carefully. He knew adults could be scared, he could never really forget the way fear smelled just before someone was met with death. He used to get a thrill from it, but now he just felt sick.

           But Miss Parker was like Mr. Stark and Miss Romanoff and maybe like Mr. Barnes. He didn’t know people like them could be scared.

           Miss Parker’s lips quirked up. “Yes,” she echoed. “In fact, everyone can be scared.”

           “I...” Peter paused, at a loss for words. It was ironic that once he deemed himself secure enough to speak that he couldn’t find anything to say. “I… didn’t know that.”

           He didn’t know a lot of things.

           “I don’t either, don’t worry.”

           He’d said that out loud?

           Miss Parker laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh like Mr. Stark’s. It was reserved but still just as bright, like a white dwarf star.

           “I’m sorry,” Peter mumbled. “For scaring you. I g-guess I can’t really help it.”

           “It’s not you that’s scary,” Miss Parker reassured, looking up at Peter when he shifted. The nearly inaudible sounds that the disks made against the board when they were shifted wasn’t pleasant. “It’s just… I guess it’s me messing up that I’m scared of. I really do care about you.”

           Peter rested his chin on his forearm, hunching his body. His neck felt exposed even against the wall, and he didn’t like it.

           “You remind me of someone I can’t quite remember myself, and I guess that's part of why I’m scared.” She shrugged, and Peter couldn’t quite interpret that sort of shrug. “I’m scared of scaring _you,_ I think.”

           “‘M not scared,” Peter whispered, but it felt like a lie.

           Miss Parker thought it was a lie too, based on the way her eyes went sad. 

           “Your eyes are chocolate colored,” Peter observed abruptly. “Mr. Stark says my eyes are chocolate colored. He said like sunshine-chocolate.” 

           “He’s right,” Miss Parker’s smile was more amused this time. “I always wanted blue eyes as a kid,” she reminisced, “I thought they were so pretty, I wanted to be pretty too. I grew out of that, I guess.” 

           He wasn’t really used to someone sharing their thoughts so freely with him, outside of trying to distract him or tell him something. 

           And he realized, it wasn’t a distraction, it was a filler. Two things easily mixed up but definitely separated. It was a filler because Miss Parker didn’t know what to say, so she vomited up a lot of words without actually saying anything.

           It was a coping mechanism. 

           “I do that too.”

           Miss Parker’s head snapped up, and Peter’s breath caught on the sharpness of the motion.

           “Say nothing, I m-mean. Mr. Stark comes over and w-we talk a lot, but sometimes I d-don’t say anything. It’s okay to not know how to talk to me. I-I know I’m hard to talk to.”

           Miss Parker winced, and Peter thought that maybe she was so unnatural because she was so new. Unguarded. 

           Warm and open.

           Familiar.

           His senses still buzzed, though.

           “You’re not hard to talk to, just…” Miss Parker sighed.

           “You’re lying,” Peter said quietly. “I do that too. Mr. Stark is good at catching them.”

           He was trained to lie, but Mr. Stark and Miss Romanoff were trained to do that too. They saw through each other, but he must’ve been opaque to Miss Parker.

           “I suppose I am. You’re a smart boy.” 

           Peter smiled a little at the praise. “Thank you, Miss.” 

           “I mean it.” Her heart sounded less rabbit-ish now. He liked it when she wasn’t scared. She pressed her palms together, rubbing them. She seemed lost in thought.

           Peter hid his chin behind his arms again, brushing the top of his head against the ceiling. He wondered if the ceiling was as clean as the floors, did people clean ceilings? 

           “I realized that I never heard your name,” Miss Parker said, like she just realized this. “Have I? I hope your name isn’t actually Spider-kid.” 

           He hesitated for a little. Did he feel safe enough to share?

           He supposed he did.

           “I’m Peter.”

           Miss Parker inhaled sharply. Her brown eyes searched his warily, and Peter felt like shrinking back. He’d done something, he’d done something and he didn’t know what. Did she not like his name?

           “I–” something unreadable went through her eyes, slowly and strongly. Her swallow sounded heavy. “It’s nice to meet you, P-Peter.” 

⎊

 **Inbox (** _10,301 unread_ **)**

 

 **mayparker@starkmail.sec** _> >>_ **anthonyestark@starkmail.sec**

**CC/BCC: drhelencho@starkmail.sex**

**Subject:** Spider-kid, huh?

 

           Attached:  _File_

 

           Check this out, please.

 

           May Parker (Stark Industries Private and Public Medical)

 

           “Hm,” Tony angled his phone. “FRIDAY, get me a big screen of that file. What is it?”

           A hologram popped up, white and filled to the brim with lines of black text. At the bottom was a picture of what looked like a nuclear family.

 _“It seems to be a civilian file, Boss,”_ FRIDAY explained. _“Male, 9 months, deceased. He and his parents supposedly died in a plane crash.”_

           “Supposedly?” Tony pulled up his swivel chair and leaned back into the cushion, crossing his legs. 

 _“The body of him and his father were never found,”_ she said wistfully. 

           Tony hummed, lips turning down. “Morbid.” Why would May send him a file on a dead baby? “Give me a name, FRI.” 

_“Peter Benjamin Parker.”_

           Tony’s blood froze solid, eyes flicking down to the wide, sunshine-chocolate eyes of the kid staring up at him from the picture, and it was him. It was his Peter. 

_Peter Parker._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)
> 
> ˢᵗᵃʸ ʰʸᵈʳᵃᵗᵉᵈ


	31. Protocol: Quiet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats up yall!!!! ive been staring at the screen for like 2 hours and here we are. this is a doozy and i did it in like one sitting so im super surprised??? and its a loaded chapter too, so ~3700 words bayBEEEEE
> 
> please enjoy!!!!! no TWs today :D

            Bucky met him in the lab, where he had been living for about 15 hours now. Not counting the 5 hour break he took to actually sleep.

            Pepper would tell him that 5 hours had more similar with a nap than with actually sleeping later, but his body yelled at him for sleeping more than that so he could face her wrath another day.

            FRIDAY beeped obnoxiously and Tony looked up from the hologram when she told him Barnes was there and waiting for clearance to enter. He waved his hand, “Of course he’s allowed in, I invited him.”

_             “Yes, Boss. How could I forget about the perfectly reasonable decisions you always make just after waking up?” _

            “I didn’t program you to sass me, young lady,” Mr. Stark snarked back, turning to Barnes as he tentatively entered the lab. He spread his arms out, turning dramatically. “Welcome to the 21st century, Ice Bucket.” 

            “Har har,” Barnes responded, looking around with an obviously apprehensive yet appreciative gaze. “Can I sit somewhere?”

            Tony shrugged. “Might as well, we’re here to talk after all. Take a squishy-spinny chair.”

            Once everything was closed down and chairs were retrieved, Tony leaned back and really considered booting Bucky out and just falling asleep, but the 3 cups of pure caffeine in the form of black coffee he was running on said  _ no, talk. _

            “So,” he started, ignoring the déjà vu. “We know who the kid is.”

            Barnes’ head shot up instantly from where he was watching Dum-E whir and spin in the corner.

            Tony’s lips rose a little. “Yeah, that was my reaction too. Peter Parker, presumed dead at 9 months in a plane crash that killed his mother and supposedly his father too.” 

            Bucky frowned, leaning forward. “9 months is awful young.”

            He sank into the chair, looking at the ceiling. “Yes,” he said sadly. “Yes it is.” 

            “And you said he probably got his powers at a year old?” Tony nodded. “ _ Fuck _ , those assholes.”

            “Assholes indeed,” Tony boosted himself to slide from the worktable to the middle of the room. He pushed himself next to Barnes. “And I know I want to tell him, but I don’t know how he’ll take it.”

            Barnes thought for a little, resting his head against the wall. While the cushioned chair seemed to swallow Tony, Barnes was just fine sitting on it.

            He pretended he wasn’t a little jealous that he wasn’t that tall.

            He  _ wasn’t _ .

            “I think he’s gonna be confused,” he said after a while. “Real confused, and scared maybe. It’s different from getting a name, it  _ is  _ his name. Though it is convenient that he’s already used to his first name.”

            “Should I be worried?” Tony asked, wanting to get to the point.

            “Yes,” Barnes told him with a hard stare. “You should always be worried about something like this. I know I didn’t take ‘rememberin stuff too well. I beat Stevie’s face in on a helicarrier.”

            Tony made an  _ ah  _ sound with an exhale, looking away from Bucky. “Right.” 

            “But the patterns, the way he acts around new people or new information, it’s not like me because he was probably trained a ‘lil different.” Barnes articulated with his hands, and Tony noticed that he used his left arm less. He wondered if the arm he’d made him felt different than the arm he had with HYDRA. He assumed it would, he’d used a different metal. He was more focused on Bucky being comfortable than being… the Winter Soldier.

            “He seems like he always wants to run before he fights,” the man continued. “At least, from what I’ve heard from ‘ya. I do want to go see him,” he reminded him. “I really do, Stark.”

            “I get it,” Tony said exasperatedly. “I just don’t know if he’s ready for that. You saw how he reacted last time, which was to fight, by the way.” 

            “I know,” Barnes acknowledged, sounding a little like a kid who got his hand stuck in the cookie jar and was just reprimanded on the rules of eating sugar before bed.

            That was a weirdly specific analogy, but Tony had gotten used to taking metaphors too far.

            “How do I deal with the eventual emotions that are going to happen?” Tony asked, wincing at the way that the words came out.

            Barnes picked up on his wording. “You shouldn’t be trying ‘ta  _ deal  _ with Peter’s emotions. You should be trying ‘ta help him.” 

            “I guess I use up all of my eloquence around him,” Tony joked, even though he felt a little bit of truth in the words. 

            Barnes looked at him with those ocean-blue eyes and said, “No, I don’t think so.” 

            Tony flashed him a small, nervous smile. 

            The distance between them wasn’t as great as it felt, but it seemed like they were on opposite continents just from where their chairs were.

            He could hear the breath Barnes took. “Just… tell him that fear and anger aren’t irrational.” Barnes said with thought. “The world likes to pretend that the best way of ‘gettin out of a sticky situation is to never panic, but that’s not always the answer. If fear was irrational, we wouldn’t have it, yeah?” 

            Tony’s chest tightened, he could feel the rock that Barnes had dropped in his lungs.

            He marched on, “I’ve spent a long time afraid and angry, but I’ve learned that the way people react to small things often reflect the way they react to big things. Fear and anger are as much emotions as ‘bein happy or miserable.” 

            “Pep used to tell me something like that,” Tony confessed quietly. “ _ Don’t let your emotions rule you, but don’t close the gate either,  _ or something.” 

            Bucky’s smile was understanding. “Yeah. Just don’t tell him to calm down, it teaches ‘em to hate their emotions.” 

            He pointed at Bucky, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll think about that.” 

            “Thank you,” he said earnestly. 

            “No, thank you!” It was supposed to be energetic, but it came off as automatic. Barnes didn’t comment. “Now, would you help me tinker with this doodad? I need your soldier-steroids, my fragile old man arms can’t hold down this nanotech.” 

❖

            Peter’s head shot up from the checkers board when he heard footsteps outside of the door. The hair on the back of his neck stood up straight, and he went still.

            Miss Parker looked up at him with confused eyes and turned when the door creaked, the metallic sound breaking the peaceful, understanding silence that had built around them.

            Checkers were forgotten as Mr. Stark stepped into the room and Peter threw himself at him. “Mr. Stark!” he shouted, a loud laugh bubbling in the back of his throat. “Sir! You came back!” 

            Mr. Stark’s arms were warm surrounding him, and Peter shoved his nose into the space between his shoulder and neck. “Of course, buddy,” Mr. Stark reassured, his voice amused and some other emotion that Peter couldn’t name but found extremely  _ safe.  _ “I’d never leave you. I just had to take care of something. And didn’t I tell you none of that  _ sir  _ business?” 

            “Yes,” he mumbled, breathing in the cologne and smell of coffee and oil.

            He was still amazed that he knew what coffee smelled like now. It was so uniquely  _ Mr. Stark  _ that he didn’t really think of it as coffee smell at all, just something that let him know he was okay, he would be okay. 

            He will be okay.

            “How about we get rid of that Mr. Stark nonsense too. How do ‘ya feel about that?” 

            Peter shook his head, exhaling and not making much of an effort to keep the happy chortle from escaping his lips. “Mm-mmm.”

            Mr. Stark must’ve given a funny look to Miss Parker, because she snorted from the desk they had moved to be in the middle of the room. His ears warmed a little.

            “Why not, kiddo? I know your name.” Mr. Stark nudged him a bit, and he clung to his dark green tank top like it was a rock in a river. “Why don’t you call me mine?”

            “‘Y know my name because you named me,” Peter pointed out, voice muffled against the cloth. “‘N Mr. Stark  _ is _ your name,” he added. 

            He looked up with a frown when Mr. Stark sucked in breath through his teeth. He gently pulled Peter away after he de-stickified himself from Mr. Stark’s clothing, and squeezed his shoulders. Peter furrowed his brow and wrinkled his nose.

            Mr. Stark took a deep breath and looked up at Miss Parker, whose eyes were knowing and pitying.

            “What?” Peter locked eyes with Mr. Stark. He was getting better at doing that, looking someone in the eyes without getting nervous or immediately glancing away.

            “It’s best if he hears it when you’re here,” Miss Parker said quietly.

            Peter’s eyes widened, and he grabbed for the man’s shirt again. “Are you leaving?” his voice was high-pitched and distressed.

            Mr. Stark held him kindly but firmly. “ _ Not  _ right now.”

            Peter didn’t miss how he avoided using definitives. 

            “Then what?”

            He sighed, bending down slightly so he was eye level with Peter. A cold rush of dread went through him. “I… Pete. I didn’t exactly name you. Peter was your name a long time before you met me.” 

            “No,” Peter responded, head jerking back a little at the sheer ridiculousness of the statement. It was just wrong. His name had been Weapon. “Who told you that?”

            Mr. Stark pressed his lips into a rigid line, and nodded his head at Miss Parker. Peter followed his gaze and narrowed his eyes at the woman.

            She inhaled and got up, stopping when Peter shifted closer to Mr. Stark in response to her advance. She hesitated with an open mouth before saying quietly. “You’re my nephew, Peter.”

            “What?” Peter sounded like a broken record, and his senses did not like him being this confused at all. They yelled at him, told him that if he didn’t know how the situation would end up then he should  _ get out.  _ “Who? I– I’m just Peter.”

            “Peter Parker,” Mr. Stark said, his low voice startling him. Peter yanked his shoulders out of Mr. Stark’s grasp. 

            “I don’t even know what a nephew is,” Peter said breathily. “I– I don’t…” He flinched when Miss Parker reached out for him. She looked hurt by his rejection of her touch, but his throat felt swollen and dry, like his tongue was trying to choke him from the inside. He didn’t want to feel her. “I don’t have 2 names,” he managed. 

            Miss Parker asked Mr. Stark a question with her eyes, and said, “Peter Benjamin Parker. I married your father’s brother.” 

            He stepped back into Mr. Stark, reaching for the man’s hand. He felt better like that. He felt more secure.

            Being confused scared him. 

            “I don’t know what those words  _ mean _ ,” he choked out. He’d read them before, he’d read them in books and he’d heard them when they were read aloud to him, he just never bothered to understand what their definitions were because he’d fear a smack of reprimand if he uttered them.

            He chose to ignore the familiar second name, he chose to ignore the harsh words and pain that came with it. Hearing someone  _ call him it _ so freely struck him like lightning would a tree, wounded and shocked. 

            He wasn’t allowed to say that name. He’d never been allowed to say that name. Only in his head, which used to be unavailable to anyone. 

_             Used to be. _

            Mr. Stark remained a silent source of stability, holding him so he wouldn’t get lost in the space that was getting smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller–

            “It means we’re family,” Miss Parker explained with open hands. “And I thought you were dead for 14 years, and now you’re here.” She sounded strained, and Peter could see the silver in her waterline. 

            He smacked his hands over his ears and rested all of his weight on Mr. Stark’s chest, leaning against him. “No,” he said quietly. “You’re lying,” he inhaled, “you’re  _ lying!  _ This is a trick!  _ I don’t have a family!” _

_             Not like Miles. _

            Unfortunately his hand-headphones did absolutely nothing coupled with his enhanced hearing, his enhanced hearing which made every word out of Miss Parker’s mouth throb and ache.

            He’d never heard such blatant untruths said with such belief, it was absurd. It was crazy, she was crazy.

            “I– I married Benjamin Parker,” he flinched at the name, “and he was related to Richard Parker–”

_             “Stop!”  _ He yelled, a desperate edge to his tone, and Mr. Stark let out a startled exclamation of worry.  _ “Нет! Не произноси его имя! Он найдет меня!”  _

            “Alright,” Mr. Stark started sternly. “That’s enough,” and a little gentler, “we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Peter.” 

            “‘M scared,” he admitted in a tiny voice. “Don’t want– d-don’t want to.”

            “That’s fine,” Mr. Stark validated, tone abnormally calm because he didn’t understand, he didn’t understand,  _ he didn’t understand what happened to him when he said that name–  _ “That’s okay, you just deserved to know.” 

            Miss Parker inhaled through her mouth, chest expanding with the breath. Her heart was back to it’s pounding. He didn’t mean to be so loud, just loud enough to get her to stop saying his name–

            “I’m sorry, really. For what it’s worth,” she apologized sincerely, gently, guilt coating her shaky voice. “I didn’t know.” 

            “That’s fine,” Mr. Stark repeated, calloused hands covering Peter’s ears, and somehow it felt better when he did it.  _ We’ll talk about it later,  _ he mouthed.

            He hated the way he shook like a leaf up until Miss Parker left with another slew of apologies and Mr. Stark started carding his hands through his hair.

            “‘M sorry,” he told Mr. Stark, calmer now. He was proud of himself, proud of himself for not buzzing, proud of himself for not completely breaking down. He was more okay in a less amount of time. 

            He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing but he was still proud of it.

            “For what?” Mr. Stark asked him genuinely. “You know, I should make you do pushups or something for every time you say sorry when you didn’t do anything.”

            Peter’s legs gave out of their own volition, and he let out a huff. “‘M sorry for scaring her. She just wanted t-to get to know me.” 

            “I’m sure she understands,” Mr. Stark let out a noise while sitting down next to him. He leaned back. “I’m too old to be sitting like this– May’s a very smart woman, Pete. She hasn’t really had time to adjust so she probably is a little scared.” There was a pause, and Peter looked at Mr. Stark with expectant eyes. “And being honest, because that’s easier now, I’m a little scared too, you know?”

            Peter blinked and frowned. 

            “I mean, my friend is in Tennessee. And I don’t know how to go get him without the Quinjet or just going out there alone,” he sighed. He looked tired, tired beyond a physical level and Peter ached for that, because he knew about that kind of being tired. He may sleep now but that didn’t mean it was a good schedule or quality sleep. “And SHIELD won’t authorize a rescue mission, because they want you supervised by someone.”

            “What about Miss Romanoff?” Peter piped up. “She’s a SHIELD agent. They should trust her.”

            He understood why he needed to be supervised. He really did. He was aware of how much energy Mr. Stark must spend making sure he was okay here, even though his presence was enough for him. He was so grateful for it and he wished there was something he could do so Mr. Stark could find his friend without trouble. 

            Mr. Stark pointed at him. “See, that’s smart. That  _ would _ be smart. You’re a smart kid. But unfortunately SHIELD doesn’t want her  _ getting more attached  _ or whatever, they’re prohibiting her from seeing you more. It’s all official spy jargon.” 

            Mr. Stark wasn’t saying something, and he opened his mouth to press for it, but he decided against it. That would be disrespectful. “I’m sorry.”

            A warm hand rested on his shoulder. “That? Stop that. Stop apologizing for something that isn’t your fault. It’s SHIELD’s fault, alright?”

            Peter shrugged, looking at his hands and pressing his thumbs together. “I just feel like it is. Miss Romanoff must not like not being trusted.”

            “She doesn’t,” Mr. Stark said bluntly. “She hates it. She threw her best mature-adult-tantrum but got nowhere, that’s how SHIELD is. But it’s not your fault. Can you say that?”

            “It’s not my fault?”

            Mr. Stark made a so-so tilting motion with his hand. “Try again.”

            “It’s not my fault.”

            He hesitantly wrapped his arm around Peter’s shoulders, and he stiffened just a little, but eventually relaxed.

            It was weird just touching to touch, but it was nice. That was the way a lot of things were.

            But that was okay. He was okay. He would be okay. He liked it.

            “There you go, only took you a couple months,” Mr. Stark jested. Peter wasn’t sure whether he was referring to letting him touch him without some emotional realization or about what he said. 

            Peter let out a breath, and looked away from Mr. Stark. “I don’t know.” He heard Mr. Stark open his mouth, but he interrupted him. “I don’t know how to not scare people. I could hear Miss…” he chewed on his lip, “...her heart. She was afraid of me, or of something in here. I don’t want t-to make her be in here.”

            He knew what it felt like to be forced into something he was terrified of, it made his stomach turn and usually ended up in him being sick. 

            “I think that’s good, giving her space, I mean,” Mr. Stark thought aloud. “I do think she wants to know you, but it’s a hard realization for anyone, what she found out. I know I would want some alone time too.”

            Peter nodded.

            “But, I’ve learned a few things these past few days, Pete. Or, Pepper and Barnes have told me a few things. Did I tell you I talk to him?”

            Peter nodded again, turning his eyes down.

            “He can be very insightful when he’s not complaining about not being allowed in here. He cares, you know. He cares a lot. Him and Pep know what they’re doing, and that scares me a little because a team up with Natasha would doom me.”

            He laughed a little, nose scrunching up. “It wouldn’t doom you.”

            “It would!” Mr. Stark insisted, smiling back at him. “It would completely doom me. But it really is good that they know what they’re doing because I can trust them. Barnes told me something very smart a couple hours ago, do you want to know what it was?” 

            Peter swallowed back the innate apprehension and distrust that came with the name  _ Barnes,  _ and nodded. He trusted Mr. Stark wholeheartedly, with his life, and Mr. Stark trusted Mr. Barnes.

            He wondered if he could too.

            “He told me that  _ it’s okay to be scared. _ He told me that fear and anger are all emotions, and are all just as good as joy or sadness.” Mr. Stark paused, exhaling and looking away from Peter for a moment. His eyes were vulnerable, and Peter melted. 

            “He told me that no matter what you feel about what, even if you’re scared or angry about it, that what really matters is what you do with it.” He met Peter’s eyes, obviously knowing that he was sharing something private with the boy, and Peter was so… so…

_             Honored  _ was really the only right word. He was honored that Mr. Stark managed to open his book to him and read out his words.

            And they helped, they really did. 

            “So it’s okay to feel?” Peter asked gently. 

            Mr. Barnes must be a very different man, now.

            “It is,” Mr. Stark confirmed. “It’s  _ so _ okay. And I used to not know that until it was too late.” He laughed disbelievingly, like he couldn’t believe he was saying the things he was. “And I think it’s pretty good advice, even if it was a few years late to the party.” 

            “Mr. Barnes said that?” Peter pulled his shirt down, 1 of 5 that he felt comfortable wearing. Oversized and cotton and it made him feel like he was home. 

            He wondered what the rest of the Tower looked like from the inside.

           It was a little strange that he thought that when he thought of the word  _home._

            “I know, right?” Mr. Stark asked, picking up on the spoken question mark at the end of his sentence. “Him and Rogers should do some philosophical podcast and make their own money to pay for their own motorcycles.” 

            “Huh,” Peter vocalized, looking at the checkers board that Miss Parker had left behind. A not-quite-awkward silence fell over them for a few minutes before he asked, “Do… do you think Mr. Barnes would be okay coming here?”

            “Meeting you?”

            Peter took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and nodded. “W-with you, please?”

            Mr. Stark pulled Peter into a side hug, squeezing his shoulders. “Of course he would. He’s been bugging me for forever.”

            Mr. Stark trusted Mr. Barnes. He trusted him enough to be sort of a messenger between him and Peter.

            Mr. Barnes, who made Mr. Stark pay for his motorcycle and would doom him if he teamed up with Virginia Potts and Miss Romanoff, who played music when Peter couldn’t be alone in his mind. Who kept him company even though he wasn’t even here.

            _Not the Winter Soldier._

            Mr. Barnes, who Mr. Stark trusted. And Peter was okay with trusting whoever Mr. Stark trusted. He was Iron Man, after all.

            “I–” the words died in his throat a little. “I just want to see if we’re okay together.”

            And it  _ was  _ scary, it was  _ really _ scary asking. And it would be scary seeing him again, seeing him even if he wasn’t the same Soldier that lifted his hands for him and taught him to pull a trigger. But being afraid was okay, and if he got angry, that was okay too.

            He fisted his hands in his shirt when a small part of his brain told him he was a filthy traitor, betraying HYDRA like he had been.

            He looked at Mr. Stark, Iron Man, the target of all targets and yet who seemed to fit all the feelings that came with the illusory word  _ dad,  _ and told it to shut the fuck up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> 1\. Нет! Не произноси его имя! Он найдет меня! (No! Don't say his name! He'll find me!) 
> 
> big shoutout to my mom, who doesn't even read this stupid thing but looks over it so i dont inadvertently say something stupid and/or harmful (and who's the inspiration for around 75% of what bucky says here) <3 <3 im sorry for harassing u every week 
> 
> im gonna tell yall to stay hydrated until the day i die bc i love yall and care abt yall so mUCH!!!!!!!!!!!


	32. Protocol: Legacy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im getting better!! at writing longer chapters!!!! :D
> 
> TW for gun violence 
> 
> pls enjoy <3

           It was 4 days before Mr. Barnes visited him.

           He spent all of those days making sure Mr. Stark would stay, would stay for when Barnes walked through the door, would stay because meeting someone together and meeting someone entirely alone were completely different monsters with their own battles. 

           Part of that battle was figuring out how to sleep without his brain instantly freaking out. Peter calmed the constant worrying in his mind by absorbing himself in his work, ignoring how the holograms hurt his light-sensitive eyes and dismissing Mr. Stark’s half proud, half confused glances when he didn’t complain about there being way too much cheese in the food he now knew was called scrambled eggs. 

           Eventually the man forced him to sleep for at least 8 hours, but not after a lot of fuss.

           It felt freeing, in an unusual kind of way, to be able to fuss and complain and nitpick without being tazed, or slapped, or verbally bitten at. He really was grateful for the food on the paper plates with the plastic forks that he constantly asked why weren’t metal if they  _ could  _ be, anything tasted better than cold oatmeal and stale bread after all, but it was nice to figure out how to like and dislike things for some reason or for no reason at all. He liked telling Mr. Stark about all those times, when he found out why he didn’t like raw broccoli–  _ could broccoli be raw? _ – compared to the broccoli that arrived on his plate with small tendrils of steam. 

           He still found warm food fascinating, which was a constant source of amusement for Mr. Stark, even though Peter didn’t quite understand why Mr. Stark didn’t find warm food as weird as he did. Maybe it was just that he didn’t like thinking about it. 

           Peter liked thinking, he realized. He liked thinking about things he liked to do, he liked thinking about things when they weren’t about Mr. Barnes. He could do that now, he could tell Mr. Stark that he hated the way his coffee smelled and that he thought the word  _ chocolate  _ was dumb because it had too many syllables too quickly.

           Mr. Stark always shot him a warm smile whenever he talked, whether it be about food or about how hard pronouncing certain words was. 

           He still deigned to keep his programmed Words his own little secret, a secret that might’ve already been or would be busted once Mr. Barnes opened the door and walked through the vibranium threshold.

           Mr. Stark told him after Miss Parker left that he always,  _ always _ wanted to know what Peter was feeling. He told him how proud of him he was for saying he was scared, for voicing his emotions, emotions that were valid. 

           Emotions that were okay to feel.

           He figured that was another part of his sudden urge to share any and every opinion he had– because before he didn’t quite know how or whether he was allowed to have an opinion on anything at all. He’d been raised to be apathetic, precise, and detached. 

           Apathy wasn’t nearly as fun as caring about things, he found. Caring about how a book ended, about which instruments he didn’t like, about the way chocolate was supposed to be pronounced. 

           His Words were something he wasn’t ready to share yet, along with the guilt and fear that still festered in the back of his mind for all of the wrong reasons, but he was making his own Words. Words like  _ safe  _ and  _ stay  _ and  _ sunshine  _ and  _ love,  _ all Words with their own personal, uncategorized meanings but didn’t mean the same things as their predecessors. They were Words with capital W’s but they didn’t make him want to curl up and cover his ears, they made his head dance with memories that were pleasant. Remembering was more like looking at a stained glass mural than a shattered mirror now. 

           And he liked it.

           Because he could do that– he knew how to do that– now. 

           4 days felt like a long time when he thought about everything he was learning. The intricacies of this weird thing called freedom and the meanings of his very own Words were difficult things to work around but they weren’t any harder than the puzzles encrypted in code he had to solve while programming the CCB Protocol, they were just inherently different.

           And even though his fingers were busy on the holograms that hurt his light-sensitive eyes, he found his mind wandering the closer those 4 days crept to an end.

           He found that coffee really didn’t taste as bad as it smelled provided you put some sugar and some other equally-bad smelling liquid called  _ creamer  _ in it. Mr. Stark was just weird and drank it without anything added. 

           It did seem to affect him a little more drastically than it did Mr. Stark, however, and the downhill turn that Mr. Stark said was the caffeine crash was a little more harsh, but he was willing to sacrifice his desire to live for a couple hours for increased productivity for a lot more hours.

           On the 3rd day of the countdown, he presented the finished protocol to Mr. Stark’s professional eyes, and he talked Peter through correcting a few mistakes. He didn’t sugarcoat his words, and wasn’t afraid to tell Peter when he was wrong, but it didn’t feel condescending or bad. It felt educational, a feeling he was liking more and more.

           Mr. Stark showed him his own blueprint, a small nanotech blade. He mentioned that Mr. Barnes helped him with figuring out how to keep the transport capabilities that the nanotech offered and yet still keeping the tracker in place.

           “Why do you need a tracker?” Peter had asked, eyes sparkly and wide as he stared at the technology. Nanotech was something different than anything else he’d been exposed to while at the facility, something exciting and new and it was completely invented by Mr. Stark.

           He was a little embarrassed to admit that his awe for the man grew exponentially that day. 

           “I put a tracker on everything I make,” Mr. Stark hummed. “You know how I became Iron Man, right?”

           Peter nodded his head vehemently, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His voice felt thick when he said. “I, uh, when it happened, we were all notified–” he didn’t miss the spark of confusion in his eyes– “and I, um…” he fidgeted, not really understanding how to put it the way he wanted to without making Mr. Stark feel guilty. “I felt really inspired by you, be-because you were trapped, right? And you got out. But he… they didn’t like that.” 

_            “It’s quite irritating, especially when they have a certain Boy Scout’s troop of superheroes on their side.” _

_            “The Avengers?”  _

_ ”Silence!” _

           Mr. Stark’s face softened, and while he didn’t say anything out loud, his dark eyes said all of the guilty, self-blaming words for him. “Yeah. Well, some dude was using my weapons in places that I didn’t want him to, but I didn’t always know where because there weren’t any GPS’s on them.”

           “And you don’t want them to be used to hurt people?” And just like that, his apprehension and anxiety was forgotten. 

           “That, and sometimes I lose things and can’t find them,” Mr. Stark shook his head at himself. “My lab is pretty big and pretty messy.”

           Peter’s eyes widened. “You have a  _ lab?” _

           Mr. Stark looked back at the blueprint for the nanotech blade, then back to Peter. “Yeah, it’s pretty neat. I should take you there sometime.”

           “After?” 

           He didn’t need to elaborate. “Yeah, kiddo. After.” 

           And even though the promise was exciting, it did nothing to stop the 4th day hitting him like a train. 

✖

           “Have you gotten anything in return, Agent Roosevelt?” she asked the man who startled in the chair he was sitting in.

           “Uh, no, Doctor,” Roosevelt affirmed with a wrinkled brow. Blue eyes met her green. “Potts has not sent a return email, and nothing seems to show that she will soon. It looks like we’ll be stuck with the information we already have.”

           She tsked, him, moving to the back of the room. “This is why I hired you for the boy’s medical.” Her German accent dominated the room, and the other nameless and faceless agents turned their heads when her eyes pierced into theirs. “We know that Weapon is in Avengers Tower. We know that Weapon is detained. We also know that Weapon shut down the Tower. Now the question is, Agents, is how did a child find a way to disable Stark’s super-secret AI and you cannot, even with the work that he already did for you?”

           Roosevelt turned in his chair, standing up and putting his hands behind his back. Her eyes narrowed at him. “With all due respect, Dr. Schneider, SHIELD is difficult to work with in regards to getting access to the boy’s webshooters.”

           “He made them here, in this facility, did he not?” she barked at him. When Roosevelt remained silent, she growled.  _ “Did he not?” _

           “He did, ma’am,” Roosevelt responded meekly. “However, I don’t see how that’s relevant–”

           “Tell them you know where they originated from,” a different voice said, followed by the slamming of the lab door. The administrator entered the room, and Roosevelt’s voice died in the back of his throat.

           “Tell them that you can examine them more thoroughly with the same technology,” he ordered. “Simple enough, Agent?” 

           Schneider couldn’t help but rest her hand against the concealed gun at her hip. The man always made her suspicious, he was cold-hearted and ruthless. He wormed his way into his position and struck like a viper when the time was right to prove himself. Even she couldn’t stop him from becoming someone at the top of the chain in the ATHENA project.

           Roosevelt audibly swallowed, and sat back down. “Yes, sir.”

           She felt a bit of bitterness swell in her at how even though her position demanded the utmost respect, his presence commanded the room into submission.

           “I am not to be walked over,” she hissed quietly at him. “I am not your boy.” 

           The administrator gave her a nasty smile, dark brown hair catching the bleak lights. “We’ll see about that. You may have revolutionized the field of prosthetics, but you still let  _ it _ call you  _ Mommy.”  _

           She bristled, hand gripping the hilt of the pistol. 

           The man clapped. “You,” he pointed a crooked finger at an agent who she didn’t remember. “Is Romanoff putting up any more struggle?”

           The agent cleared his throat. “We have SHIELD’s full support on prohibiting her from interacting with the Weapon. However, Rogers and Barton are getting involved in the decision. We’re beginning to encounter resistance because of that, sir. I imagine it will get worse once we isolate Stark with Rhodes.” 

           “Remove them from the equation,” he waved his hand, and the agent turned. “You know they’ll get on our trail with Maximoff and Wilson at the slightest whiff of us. Dangle a clue in front of their face, chase them out of that Tower.” 

           “Administrator,” Schneider cut in, her voice demanding. The administrator whipped his head around, eyes murderous. “You will not give out unauthorized orders, nor will you disrespect my authority over this operation. You not only risk this facility but HYDRA itself.”

           “I’ll organize a–” the same agent interrupted, eyes going wide when she drew her gun on him. 

_            “Schweigen!”  _ she ordered, finger on the trigger. The agent put his hands up, and the room’s atmosphere shifted into cold terror. Her lips curled at the dominance. 

           “Oh fuck off _ ,”  _ the man beside her admonished exasperatedly. 

           She slid her gaze to the administrator, who shifted when he met her eyes. “You would do well to watch your filthy mouth.” 

           “You’re listening to me, though, aren’t you?” the man’s smile was sly. 

           “You’re only here because you shot off in a SHIELD agent and got her pregnant with a baby you could use to your advantage,” she spat at him. “I’ve worked hard in my field and earned my position at HYDRA, I am carrying a family tradition. I am your superior!” 

           His eyes sparkled with malice as he retorted, “So what you’re saying is that I used my smarts to get to the top and you just inherited it.” 

           “You raised a monster,” she whispered. “I encouraged him to be the best at it.”

           “ _ It _ ,” the man snapped back, aggravated at the use of pronouns that humanized the poor weapon. “I couldn’t let my legacy go to waste. It had to be a monster, there was no other way.”

           “You saw the look in  _ his _ eyes,” Schneider said. She felt great satisfaction watching his nose wrinkle. “Miles Morales, 7 years old, 1 year younger than your boy. They both grew up too quick, but your boy grew up quicker.” She watched with glee as recognition lit up in his eyes. “He is weak, that is why we are retrieving him. Your little threat failed, you failed. Your legacy has already gone to waste.”

           The administrator curled his hands into a fist, and tried and failed to school his features from showing his anger. “You say that like your little dream of being an award-winning prosthetic scientist didn’t fall apart at the seams.”

           Her wrist snapped back when she fired the gun, the bullet going cleanly through the agent that she had been aiming at’s forehead. Blood splattered on the screen, red blood, not blue. The entire room feel deadly silent as other agents stopped typing and Roosevelt paused from where he was rotating between screens. 

_            “Aim for the head,” _ she repeated with venom, _ “they make less of a mess that way.” _

           “You need me,  _ Octavia _ ,” the administrator said, spitting her name from behind clenched teeth like it was a piece of nasty food.

           Schneider smirked at him. “I don’t think so,  _ Richard _ .” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and i oop–
> 
> Translations:
> 
> 1\. Schweigen! (Silence!)
> 
> @ that one person in the comments of the last chapter (u know who u r), u sure ur not a psychic? :0
> 
> also i uploaded this in abt 10 minutes bc i have a doctors appointment today, i am not looking forward to riding 2 hours w dilated eyes :( hopefully they get better by the time i go to comic con 
> 
> anyways, pls tell me if there r any formatting mistakes!! 
> 
> i lov yall a lot, pls take care of urselves and stay hydrated!!! make sure to drink water even if ur not thirsty. everyone needs a reminder sometimes c: <3 <3


	33. Protocol: For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya! updating a little later than i usually do but its still thursday so it doesnt count
> 
> i might have to take some time off next week, i have test on test on test and i've studied exactly 0 times. so if i dont update then u know why
> 
> incidentally, that's also the reason why this chapter is so short :( im sorry. i hope y'all enjoy it anyways!

           “Listen, Stevie–”

           Steve looked at him with his best puppy dog eyes. “I just, I think something fishy is going on, Buck.” He opened his palms, trying to reason.

           Bucky reached out his flesh arm and patted Steve on the shoulder, trying his best to be comforting. “Peter asked for me, Stevie. This is a big milestone, ‘an I don’t want to mess things up by not ‘acceptin.” 

           Early morning light filtered through tinted windows, they scheduled the meeting at 6:00 so that Peter wouldn’t psych himself out by worrying. He’d already had a talk with Miss Parker, who was still a little shaken, but seemed polite enough. Her smile had been genuine as she lent him her checkers board, saying quietly that Peter seemed to enjoy it when she had been there. She told him that she was glad he was going to him.

           She seemed like a very nice woman, and an even nicer aunt. Bucky just wished her and Peter’s history wouldn’t get in the way of family.

           He’d had enough of things getting in the way of family.

           “SHIELD isn’t the same as it was,” Steve went on, blue eyes searching his. He was honestly stressed, Bucky could tell that in the way his tone strained to keep level and his arms tensed. “Fury’s unresponsive, he’s always been secretive but he hasn’t responded to Pepper’s contact  _ or  _ Tony’s.”

           Pepper had forwarded the email she received from an Agent Roosevelt to Fury, and Tony had sent the same man a very… graphically worded voicemail after trying to call him. Fury was their last resort in all matters SHIELD, since Steve left after the HYDRA fiasco and Natasha and Clint were being alienated from the organization.

           “It’s different,” Steve said, “I’m afraid something’s going on.”

           Bucky sniffed. “I know you’ve been paranoid since 2014, but I ain’t SHIELD.” He wasn’t trying to be dismissal, but he really wanted to see Peter. Peter, who remembered him, or at least remembered something  _ about  _ him, something that  _ he  _ didn’t remember. He was desperate for anything, any little scrap, and he was so, so grateful for Steve when he woke up thinking that nothing had changed and his mind was blank.

           He knew that Peter already had Stark– Tony– but he wanted to be something like a Steve for Peter. He wanted to help, and the hands-off method Stark had him at until now just wasn’t working.

           “I get that, I really do,” Steve acknowledged, a little frustration in his voice. “I get that you wanna meet the kid, especially since he  _ knows  _ you, but there’s this feeling I have.” He enunciated with his hands, puffing out a breath. “There’s a feeling.”

           “What, your America-sense?”

           “ _ No _ , Buck.” Steve did smile a little, though, and Bucky smiled back. “This is all too familiar. Something big is coming, and I don’t like it. Even Natasha and Clint see the storm clouds.”

           “I’d rather ride out the storm knowing that the kid is ‘movin on than be kept wondering whether he hates me,” he responded honestly, gesturing down the main hall where Peter’s room was, guarded by a vibranium door and unbreakable walls, a prison in everything but name and feeling.

           “I’m trying to prevent the storm. I don’t trust SHIELD,” Steve admitted, looking down like it was a confession. “Will you at least wait until Natasha can see Peter? She loves him.”

           Bucky couldn’t deny feeling a little hurt. He knew that Steve was anxious and genuinely trying to help, but Bucky loved him too. He wanted to get a chance to, a chance that had been so rarely extended to him in a moment of vulnerability that he wasn’t going to take advantage of. “No, Stevie. The meeting is in 15 minutes, I’m not ‘goin to ignore him because you have a vendetta against SHIELD.”

           “I don’t have a  _ vendetta _ , I swear!” he rebuffed. He could see Steve search for the right words, something difficult to read in his sky eyes. Something that was difficult for Steve, too. “I just… removing the triggers didn’t work in Wakanda, you’re still not ready for BARF, I would rather be safe than sorry.”

           Bucky tensed. “I’m not gonna  _ snap  _ at ‘im!”

           “I didn’t say you were, we just don’t have all of the details!” He reasoned. “We don’t know that SHIELD really wants the best for us, we don’t know why they’re messing with Nat and Clint, who’s super stressed, by the way, and Wanda doesn’t feel safe with all of this government stuff going on!”

           “We took  _ down  _ HYDRA, Steve.” Bucky pointed out, face wanting to wince at the memories but staying perfectly still. “Nothing’s happening, nothing’s going to happen to Wanda  _ or  _ Peter. I’d rather die,” he said intensely. “They’ve already been hurt enough.”

           “Rhodey’s out of commission, Tony’s flying out in a few days once he finds a babysitter,” Steve continued to list, counting on his fingers, “we can’t be sure of anything. I’m just trying to look at all of the angles, I swear I’m not trying to say that you shouldn’t go visit Peter.”

           “You were ‘sayin that a couple minutes ago.”

           Steve exhaled through his nose, words becoming slower, more raw. He could hear the swallow he took. “I know, I know. And now I also know how important this is to you, Buck.” He reached out to rest a hand on Bucky’s hand, still resting on his shoulder. The weight was reassuring. “But I  _ really _ want you to be careful, and watch your back.”

           Bucky opened his mouth, and then his ePhone– whatever it was called, he didn’t know about this stuff, Steve still used a Nokia– went off. He removed his hand, gently shrugging off that reassuring weight, and scrolling to see a notification from Stark. “That’s my cue,” he said a little awkwardly, turning the phone to show Steve. 

           Steve nodded. He took that as his dismissal to leave through the hallway, but Steve grabbed his metal hand and stopped him.

           He looked down at the place of contact, feeling a little wistful at the fact that he couldn’t feel the warmth of his palm. He met Steve’s honest eyes with openness, frowning.

           “For me?” Steve asked quietly.

           Bucky softened. “Oh, Stevie. I’ll try, I will.” His tongue felt thick when he added, “I’m just ‘tryina figure out myself.”

           “You don’t need to do that through someone else’s eyes, you’re already yourself. I wouldn’t have you any other way.” Steve smiled.

           “I…” Bucky’s throat closed up, unable to return the smile this time. “I’m not the same Bucky from the ‘40’s. I’m messed up.” 

           “I’m starting to learn that now, but you’re still my best friend.” Bucky could see that Steve squeezed his hand tighter, and he never wished for his old arm back more than now. “Messed up or not. Promise me, please?”

           He sighed, wiping sweaty palms on his sweatpants. He wished he had the same sort of courage that Steve had, the same sort of earnest yet firm confidence. He hoped he was as good of a friend as Steve was. “I’ll do my best, I promise.”

           Steve let go with a satisfied nod, and Bucky saluted him before walking into the hall.

           He didn’t know why it felt like he was going off to war, or why it felt so familiar to be surrounded by imaginary troops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im gonna let yall decide if stucky is canon or not. battle royale for the tag to be added go
> 
> also!!!! this fic is OFFICIALLY over 150 pages on google docs!!!!!!!! RIP my computer, thank god for the outline function
> 
> pls drink lots of water, if u dont i'll show up at ur door to take ur kidneys >:c


	34. on the chapter

           hey yall, i know in the last chapter i said that school was hitting me hard and i needed some study time. that was true (and i think i did pretty good!! my grades arent crap at least, lol) but i don't think i can do the next one in time for thursday.

           to put it lightly, this week has been absolute hell. a lot of people don't like me currently and it's really exhausting. there's been a lot of drama at school and in my personal life and it's not fun, i'm losing sleep over it and i don't think i could handle more deadlines on top of everything else going on.

          i have so many ideas (i do write those down so i dont forget) but absolutely zero motivation to do anything, really. everything feels sort of like a chore currently. and i want yall to get my work when i'm putting effort and time into it, not when im tired, because that won't be the good quality i think yall deserve. 

          i promise this story isnt abandoned, but i do need quite a lot of time to figure my life out. and, unfortunately, i think this story and whether i can write it or not is one of the few things i feel like i can control right now, so i've decided to drop it until my mental health is in a place where i can continue writing it without it just being a huge angsty vent fic, which is where the WIP for the next chapter was heading before i deleted it. 

          my mom has scheduled an appointment with a counselor to talk about it, so hopefully everything will mellow out and eventually get better. but i really don't see that happening any time soon. 

          thank you guys so much for supporting this (and me), and thank you guys even more for being so patient throughout all of my hiatuses and rambling. i never expected my first story on this website to be received so well and it's honestly one of the coolest things to happen to me. yall jumpstarted my love of writing, no amount of thank you's will ever be enough.

          you can contact me on my tumblr if you need to talk to me– dont be afraid to reach out about literally anything. i love you guys, stay hydrated. 

          cya

**Author's Note:**

> pls give me criticism!!! i love it when people give me feedback, it helps me sleep! <3
> 
> come yell at me on tumblr! @viviixen


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